


Lawless Lands

by Mojsengojs



Series: The Self-declared Adventures of the Musketeers [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Abuse, And plenty of them, Angsty!Aramis, Angsty!Athos, Angsty!Porthos, Athos has a cat, Beating, Because I know you all love that, But before season 2, Cold, Court of Miracles, Even though I'm Swedish, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I hate the cold so the boys hate it too, Just watch the show first, Kidnapping, MedicAramis, Mostly Angsty!Porthos, No Slash, Or mostly just angst, Post-Series, Refers to my other stories but is freestanding, Spoilers for sure, Takes place after season 1, Violence, Whump!Porthos, Whump!d'Artagnan, Winter, Woops, murders, sick!d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-02-26 13:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2653316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mojsengojs/pseuds/Mojsengojs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People are dying in the masses inside Court of Miracles, and Flea comes begging for help. Porthos takes the time to disappear from the face of the Earth. Cue d'Artagnan going undercover on the streets of Paris in the midst of the untamed winter, and Athos and Aramis being worried mother hens as they all race against the clock to find their missing fourth before he too ends up dead on the streets. </p><p> </p><p>This takes place after <i>Ask Me, I Will Remain</i> but is still a free-standing story. I do refer to it, but it's not a sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

_As a wolf in a lawless land as winter approaches,  
_ _I’m running, risking my life  
_ _I have no desire to die for a longing that hurts,  
_ _but it is too late to stop when I’ve made it all the way here_

 

 

There was a pounding in his head as he woke with a start, and he groaned unhappily. You'd think a man would learn after too many nights out just how much wine one should drink before it becomes too much. Apparently he had not yet learned this, because his head was ringing loudly and every muscle in his body ached.

Although there were two types of poundings in his head, and that made no sense. The first one was nothing out of the ordinary after a night trying to keep up with Athos at the Wren. It was the common pounding, which he believed to be his brain banging itself repeatedly against his skull bone in anger of the abusive drinking. But the other sound was more distant, growing louder, but barely apprehensive through his clouded mind.

_He wasn't sure if he was hung over or actually still drunk._

Turning his head he realized it was still dark out. Why would he possibly be awake if the sun wasn't awoken yet? This made no sense at all.

"Porthos!?"

_Wait. The intense banging in his head was calling his name?_

The moment his brain finally realized that someone was standing outside his bedroom door, banging their fists against it with all their might and shouting his name, he leaped out of bed as fast as he could, unlocked the door and wrenched it inwards.

There was a rush of movements as a clutter of blonde hair fell inwards along with the door as the support of the wooden door had suddenly disappeared. Porthos let go of the door and opened his arms to catch the woman as she fell like a maiden into his embrace.

"Flea?"

Arms and hair and bodies were twisted until they were both standing straight, looking into each other's faces. Porthos mouth was hanging open as his hands moved to her cheeks, keeping her upright, while his big thumb gently moved across her split lip, his eyes darting across the black eye and dried blood in her hair.

"What happened?" He asked, anger obvious in his voice as he dragged her inside and put her into a chair. She seemed to be in shock as he knelt in front of her, grabbing the bucket and rags he used for washing his face in the morning and gently begun wiping the mud off from her arms and face. She wasn't crying, but she was not far from it as her breaths were coming out in small hiccoughing sounds.

Porthos was as careful as he could while wiping her arms, his fingers moving across with a gently pressure in search of any wounds, and he exhaled relieved when he came up short. She was dirty and bruised, but there were no cuts of broken bones except from her face. He was still planning on getting Aramis, to allow his physician friend to look her over with the perceptive eyes of his to make sure there wasn't anything that Porthos could not see. But first, he needed to get her to talk because he could not leave her in this state.

He moved the wet rag across her face, soft hands moving along the cuts and bruises covering her face, her hand coming up to rest of her cheek, and she exhaled deeply as she moved her hand to place it on top of his.

"Porthos…"

"Flea, what happened?"

"The Court… Someone is killing us."

"What do you mean?"

"People are dying Porthos, dying everywhere in the streets. I can't prove murder, and no one is helping us. People are desperate. We need help."

"I'll help. I'll go there with y'right now and we'll sort it out. You're not alone."

Flea sat still for a moment before she nodded, her face leaning into Porthos' hand. He could not tear his eyes away from her, her bruised face and trembling hands. She would always be the love of his life even if he knew they would never be together. He had accepted that she was pleased to stay in Court, and even though he would always consider the Court as his homeland, he did not belong there anymore. They were not meant to be. He knew that. That did not mean he didn't care.

"Tell me ev'rything." Porthos begged, but soon realized they would not be getting anywhere that easily. She was all too shaken and scared to tell him anything, and he needed another way of approaching the subject. Leaving her side for a moment he walked over to his cupboard and pulled out a bottle he had kept hidden for special occasions. Bringing to cups with him he poured them each a cup of the strong liquid, before sitting down in the chair next to her, moving close to her, allowing her to lean towards his shoulder and using him for support as her world appeared to be swaying.

She took one look at the glass in front of her before reaching out with a trembling hand, and drowned the whole thing in one fluent movement before leaning back in the chair, exhaling slowly. Porthos sat still, anger fuming inside him, and had she not looked so shaken already, he would've already been up, punching a hole through the wall. He really had to focus on remaining calm if he were ever to get anything out of her.

It took her another glass and several long minutes where Porthos sat patiently waiting for her before she managed to get any words out, and she started with a deep sigh.

"It… It started a couple of weeks ago. People started showing up dead in the streets. Y'know, it's not uncommon, people die of hunger and sickness all the time, but… something is not right Porthos. I met people a few days before they died and they appeared fine… Then I stumble over them in the street."

Porthos frowned – he didn't like the sound of that.

"How many?"

"Close to thirty in the last three weeks."

Porthos eyes grew wild. Flea was right – dead bodies in the streets of the Court were nothing uncommon, but it never reached those numbers. Something was certainly amiss.

"Who's king now?" Porthos said quietly, his eyes meeting Flea's. She had told him briefly at another point that there was a new man, but he didn't know more of him.

"Tison. He's a good man Porthos."

"So was Charon."

"He is nothing like Charon." Flea mumbled, the tremble in her voice gone and replaced with anger as she looked deeply into Porthos' dark eyes as her own eyes narrowed in warning.

Porthos sighed, having so much to speak of when it came to the subject of the man who had once been his best friend, only to turn around and attempt to blow up the entire Court and everyone in it. Charon had left deep cuts of worry within Porthos, trust issues he had not wanted to be thinking about but could not rid of.

This though, was not the time.

"Alright. Do y'know anything?"

"No. We don't know what's is happening nor why people are dying. I believe someone is exterminating us – cleaning up the Court. It wouldn't be the first time."

"And I assume y've sent for help?"

"Of course, but we'll never see that comin'."

Porthos nodded. The King hated the Court of Miracles, it was considered to be the filthiest part of Paris, and had it not been for the people living there protecting it so fiercely, it would've been gone decades ago. King Louis XIII might not go ahead and empty the ghetto by force, but he wouldn't stop anyone who did either. Help would never come.

_Or at least it would not be coming from the Louvre Palace._

"I'll come. Y'know that. Now tell me what 'appened to you?"

Flea's eyes sank to the floor.

"There's a man – I don't know his name. I've heard whispers of  _le Faucon_. I was intruding his turf, trying to find any of value, when I met him. He wasn't exactly… courteous as he kicked me out."

"I'll kill him." Porthos growled. No one put a hand on Flea. No one.

"I know you will. First I want to know why he's doin' this."

"We'll 'ave a talk to 'im. In the meantime I want you 'ere, stay 'ere and I will wake the others. Then we return to Court together."

Flea nodded, a small smile appearing on her lips. Help was coming. And not a day too late.

"You alright with me leavin' you a moment?"

"Of course."

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I know."

And with those last words of affirmative, Porthos quickly got dressed, wrapped his boat cloak around his shoulder, and hurried out the steps. It was in the midst of the winter, and they were having a very cold one so far. One of those breezes kept going through the city, a breeze made of ice that would slip through any clothes were you to leave an opening, and it would freeze you from the inside. Porthos hated the cold, he hated the shivers it brought with them, he hated seeing his breath as he walked with rapid steps towards Athos' apartment, and he hated the already disgusting streets of Paris being covered in wet snow. It was slippery, slurry, cold and made it almost impossible to move down the streets in high speed. He couldn't wait for summer to arrive.

And not just was the snow difficult to manoeuvre. The fact that it never seemed to be light outside was driving him mad. The nights were pitch dark, even though the white snow had helped a little bit, it just never seemed to be as light as it would be during the summer nights. He missed the sun. Hopefully it would make a reappearance soon enough.

But first he had to get to Athos. Then while Athos ducked his head into a bucket that had frozen from being left outside, he would go and locate Aramis. That was usually rather tricky, but he had seen him leave the bar a few hours prior with a lady on his hip. Hopefully he was being faithful to her – for the night being that was.

D'Artagnan would be easier, he was most likely mopping around in his room, still upset about not having the lovely Constance in his arms. Porthos understood why she decided to stay with her husband – that didn't mean he approved. D'Artagnan loved Constance and she loved him back, in difference from the marriage she was already committed to.

Porthos wrapped the cloak closer around him as a shiver jarred his spine, and he sighed as he kicked some of the snow in front of his feet. The snow was piling on the streets, covering the entire filthy roads in white. Aramis used to love it, Porthos remembered.  _A long time ago_. When they had first met, Aramis would make men made out of snow, and he would place snowballs into what Athos called pyramids and they would place candles inside of them to spread light in the dark nights. Aramis would then often take the snowballs and try his best to throw it so it would land at the back of Porthos' head, and the cold snow would slide down his neck.

Aramis didn't love the snow anymore. He could still be childish sometimes, but he was not in a very joyous mood when the snow placed its blanket upon the city. Memories replaying in his mind would always pull Aramis deep below the heavy blanket, threatening to suffocate him every time it fell. Aramis had once loved the snow. Now all it brought him was the sight of dead comrades, frozen to the ground. And Porthos hated seeing his friend close himself into his memories. He hated watching Aramis as he stared out into the white landscape, his body still but his mind racing behind his eyes, terror and fear of his own memories pushing him over the edge.

Porthos hated the snow.

_And that was the last thing on his mind before someone struck him from behind, his world falling even darker than the winter's night._


	2. Introductions

His eyes blinked open slowly, only to quickly close straight back as pain and nausea struck him hard. He had been drinking excessively again, that was for sure. He knew it was bad for him, he knew that while he was drinking, but being able to forget everything, even just for a little while, was a beautiful thing to him. To be able to drink himself into oblivion, to drink until he didn't care anymore, was a good feeling.

The upcoming mornings were rarely as beautiful.

He allowed an arm to fall off the bed and search the floor below him until fingers reached a cold bottle. Bringing it to his lips he allowed the last few drops of wine to land on his tongue before he once again opened his eyes. Sighing loudly to himself, he rolled himself up into sitting position and rested his elbows to his knees, staring straight ahead.

There was a cat sitting by his door, and he could not help but to raise an eyebrow. It was just sitting there, right next to the door, staring back at him. It was a ragged thing, half an ear missing and the muddy fur was just a swirling mess with pieces missing here in there, lost in fights with others.

He had no recollection of letting the cat in, but doors and windows were closed so he assumed he had let it in at some point last night without noticing it.

He shook his head slightly. He didn't care about the cat. It must've snuck in while he stumbled inside, he couldn't remember opening the door so there would be no way for him to remember if he had let a stray inside. But it didn't matter. He would just let it back out. So letting his thoughts drop back to his own miserable self, he stared down to his hands. They were shaking, and he knew it was from the alcohol the previous evening.

Athos also knew he was a proper mess. It had been better – then it had gotten worse again. Ever since his cousin had been causing mischief in their homeland and he had lost more than he knew he had, the drinking had gone rapidly downhill, no matter how much Porthos, d'Artagnan and most of all Aramis tried to stop him. He did okay as long as he was with them. But they were not together at all times of the day, and whenever he ended up alone, it was easier numbing the pain with a bottle than anything else.

His heart was heavy and his sorrow deep, but he still got to his feet, intent on continuing his day. He didn't do it for himself anymore, because he could not care less about his own well-being. He was beyond caring now. No, he got to his feet to bring the bucket in from outside his window, a routine he kept up for years after realizing how much quicker he could sober up by giving his body a nice, hearty shock.

But this morning he didn't lean out the window to grab the bucket straight away. Something, something he could not put his finger on to explain, stopped him in the middle of the movement. He had opened up the window, and the freezing cold that hit his face like a wall sent a violent shiver down his spine.

Something was wrong. He knew that instantly. He just didn't know what. For several minutes he stared straight out of the window, looking around of what he could see of the Parisian streets coming to life. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Bakers were bringing their newly baked bread to the market, cloth merchants and farmers were rolling their carts. Husbands were saying their good-byes to their wives before leaving the house and the children were already out playing in the snow.

Everything looked alright, everything looked as cheery and lively as always. But still Athos knew, without a doubt, that something was amiss, he could feel it all the way in to his bones that he needed to find his brothers. Something had happened.

It had been a long time since he had skipped dipping his head in the bucket, but he just didn't have enough time. The cold outside would wake him well enough anyway, so instead he donned the weapons he at least had the sense to remove before slumbering in bed last night and walked to open the door. The cat looked up at him as he passed, but sat still just staring at him as he opened the door, trying to shoo the cat outside. The flurry hairball didn't seem to have any interest in walking out into the snow, and when Athos tried to push it out with his foot, the animal just cuddled closely to his leg. Athos could just leave it there, but he had no intentions on letting a cat piss down his entire flat. It smelled bad enough in there already.

So grabbing the cat by its neck, Athos moved down the stairs, dumped the cat in the snow outside, mumbled an apology, and set out to find his brothers.

* * *

A leg wrapped around his midsection was what woke his slumber, and the faint aroma of roses reached his nose before his eyes sprung to life. Opening his eyes, he was met by a pair of gentle, blue eyes staring back at him below blonde, tangled hair. A smile spread across his lips as she reached forward,  _a hand sprawled across his bare chest_ , and pressed her lips against his.

There were worse ways of waking up, for sure. He was actually enjoying himself, something he'd been doing a lot lately. He had told his friends it was due to the joyful company the women brought him, but truth be told, he did just not want to be alone in the company of his own memories. Alone at night, when the cold came creeping in through the walls, was the worst. Years had passed but he still had no clue on how to deal with the cold, as it seemed to pierce its way through his bones. Anxiety, panic and pain came like a tidal wave every time his mind reminded him of the days in the forest. He still, after all these years, wasn't sure on how to deal with it and therefore he would supress it instead by making sure he was ever alone.

Now, here, in the company of a beautiful woman and their bodies radiating heat as they were pressed against each other, there was no place for bad memories of cold, frozen bodies. His mind and focus laid elsewhere and he kept himself busy to rid of all memories. He never minded staying the night at someone else's, especially not when that person happened to be as beautiful as the  _Madame_  next to him. Her husband was out of town on business and was not expected home until next month. Aramis liked those odds, even though d'Artagnan was whining about the fact that she, like many others, was a married woman. Porthos and Athos seemed to be having a bet on how long he could keep it up before ending up in trouble.

He would be fine – he always were. He might've snuck out through windows and backdoors many times, but always seemed to be able to get away. There had of course been occasions when his presence had been discovered, and he distinctly remembered a very angry husband about a year ago who had attacked him in a bar, punching him black and blue before Porthos and Athos had stepped in. Then of course there was the cardinal finding out about the affair between Adele and him. It had ended in the worst way imaginable, and he would never forgive himself for that. Therefore he was a lot more careful of lately, making sure the husbands were not on their way home as he snuck into the building.

Her lips had moved from him, as she was trailing gentle fingers across his naked body. Like many others, she seemed to be interested in his scars, in his stories of the life of a soldier. Her fingers now moved to his left shoulder, and he winced involuntarily. That shoulder still troubled him more than he let on, even though two months had passed since the day Athos rode into the garrison. He had removed the sling as the stitches had healed nicely, and carefully began exercising the shoulder again, but the results were slow. It was still aching annoyingly, and he did not have the strength yet in his left arm and hand that he had before.

It would come, he was sure. But he still had a long way to go before it was back to the way it was before. If it ever did.

She had moved her fingers and apologized as he had flinched beneath her touch, and he pulled her into a kiss. Her body was warm against his and normally that would help calm him down. Warmth was a good thing.

But for some reason, he could not seem to relax, his senses were telling him that something was wrong, and he felt a knot of discomfort in his stomach, growing by the minute.

Something was not right. Definitely. And he had to get out of here and find out what.

Excusing himself from the very confused  _Madame_ , he got dressed and left the building, with a promise of return. As he opened the front door, the icing cold struck him like a punch to the gut, and he staggered backwards, a hand reaching back behind him to steady himself against the door and his mind screaming at him to get back inside, back to the warmth. But he could not, and he would not, let the cold get to him, so instead he set out on the streets determined to figure out what was causing the strong feeling of worry in his guts.

* * *

He had woken while it was still pitch black outside his window, but he hadn't felt like getting out of his bed yet. The room was cold, winter outside the building creeping in through every crack and broken beam, and the fire in his room had died out during the night. He had planned to get out of bed and relight it, but his feet were too cold. So he had remained cuddled down beneath his thick duvet, dreading the morning where he would have to get up to do his duty.

Ever since the day Athos rode into the garrison with a bullet stuck in his side, things had been a bit tense. Athos had been lost in thoughts and memories, shaken by sadness and had certainly been more grumpy than usual. His body was healing fine, but his mind was still broken to what seamed to be beyond repair. They all comforted him best they could, kept him busy during the day, and held him as he cried. When he went to the Wren they knew there was no way of stopping him, but they would control the amount he drank before helping him home as he stubbornly stumbled his way through the streets of Paris.

Winter had fallen over France just when Athos was attacked two months ago, and there was no escaping it now. The snow had placed its blanket above the land, leaving everything in covered in white. Sure d'Artagnan had seen snow before and experienced the brutal winters Mother Nature had to offer, but they never got as bad down in Gascony as they apparently were up here, and he had decided he didn't like it already. No matter how much clothes he wore, he could never seem to get warm. Constance helped him sew up more clothes, and Aramis had told him to dress in layers and always wear thick woollen socks and sheep skin gloves with wool on the inside, but it didn't seem to help. He was still cold.

And so was Aramis. The brilliant soldier had told d'Artagnan about Savoy as the Duke had arrived to Paris during the spring, and even though the convoy Aramis had been a part of had set out during Easter, the land had still been disturbed by winter and dead bodies had rested on frozen ground as the snow was coloured red. Aramis did not remember everything from that night due to the head wound he had suffered from, but every time a shiver caused by cold went through him, he seemed to get flashbacks from that night spent in the forest.

Athos had told d'Artagnan that upon finding Aramis, the man had been so cold they thought they would never get him warm again. His fingers and toes had frozen stuck and his skin had been blue and puffy. He hadn't been able to speak, he had stumbled upon moving and it had taken them weeks to get him out of the stupor. Athos had also told d'Artagnan – but never told Aramis – that he had never expected Aramis to live. No man should survive being stuck in the cold like he had. But Aramis did.

To the outside world, Aramis was a survivor and a powerful soldier, able to live through any challenge thrown his way. Aramis on the other had, felt nothing but horror when thinking back of those days. And the cold was bringing him back more than anything.

Luckily, every time he seemed lost in his own mind, his face turning pale as smoke escaped his lips as he exhaled, Porthos would wrap an arm around his shoulders or give him a good pat on the back – to remind him that Aramis was never alone.

To the outside world, Porthos seemed undisturbed by everything that had happened the last couple of months, but d'Artagnan knew for certain that he wasn't. The big man was not laughing and joking as much as he had been before, he was calmer and quieter, and he kept much to himself. D'Artagnan couldn't say he knew everything about these men yet, but he had a feeling that Porthos found his friends' sorrow very difficult to deal with. He hated seeing his friends hurt, and he felt helpless in easing their suffering. It was bringing the joyful man down and he had been just as grumpy as Athos lately – but d'Artagnan could tell the bad mood was caused by sadness.

They had a lot to work on, but d'Artagnan knew they would be able to get through it, because in the end of all their troubles, they did have each other to pull the other out of it. Porthos was their brick wall right now, the rock in the storm and the anchor in the sea. He was sturdy and stoic and they had all been clinging to him lately. He had been the glue that kept them together and made sure none of them were drowning themselves in sadness.

What would they do without Porthos?

D'Artagnan knew it was time to get out of bed, and with a sour groan he eased his way out of it, pushing the duvet down. A shiver went through him instantly as he felt the cold floor beneath his feet, and a small cough escaped past his lips. He could feel a faint, tingling sensation in his chest but lost the thought as he jumped high in alarm as someone knocked on his window. He was staying at ground level now at the garrison, his room really below the ground and he normally jumped in and out through the window instead of walking the corridor below the building of the garrison to enter it. It was the room next to Aramis', even if that room next door was fairly vacant during the nights.

D'Artagnan quickly got dressed, not wanting to keep the person outside waiting, and hurried out to meet up with Athos who was pacing outside his room. His mentor looked at him from his feet and up, then gave a small nod of approval. D'Artagnan scrunched his face in confusion.

"Good morning to you too. Is there something wrong?"

"Yes."

D'Artagnan took a moment's break to see if Athos would give him a longer reply than that simple word, but nothing came. Instead Athos turned on his heels, eyes scanning the garrison that still laid empty part from a few Musketeers eating breakfast. To anyone else, Athos might look at peace and relaxed, but d'Artagnan knew that wasn't the case. Something was keeping him on his toes, and d'Artagnan wanted to know what it was.

"Would you care to tell me what is going on?"

"I don't know. We need to find Aramis and Porthos."

D'Artagnan shrugged his shoulders, pulling his cloak closer to him as the freezing wind went through the garrison, making everyone shiver along with it. Athos seemed too preoccupied to even notice it as he began walking his way towards the entrance, d'Artagnan close on his heels. The other Musketeers around the area looked their way with interest as they walked with sturdy steps, but didn't bother asking any questions.

One person that was watching every step the two men took as they walked out of the garrison though was Captain Treville, who was standing up on the balcony outside his room. He couldn't tell what was happening, but he knew when Athos looked like he did now – _with a mix of worry and determination in his eyes_ – Treville knew that bad things were in store.


	3. The beginning

Athos and d'Artagnan didn't make it far before almost colliding with Aramis as they rounded a corner. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow as both the men instantly exhaled in relief, wondering what it was that made both men so anxious. Aramis raised his hand and placed it on top of Athos' shoulder, both of them eyeing each other from down to up, just like Athos had done to d'Artagnan. Both men nodded in approval, as Aramis turned to d'Artagnan and eyed him too, before turning back to Athos.

"Have you seen Porthos yet today?"

"No, I have not. I believe we share the feeling of concern."

Aramis gave a nod, turning back to d'Artagnan.

"I decided to come here first and see to you – you are usually the one causing mischief."

D'Artagnan was going to defend himself, but knowing Aramis was right it was probably better to not say anything about it. Instead he frowned as he looked back and forth between the two men. "Aramis, Athos, what is happening?"

Athos sighed. Aramis did as well. The two men looked at each other before turning to d'Artagnan. They weren't sure how to explain it.

"I'm not certain d'Artagnan, but I would love to see Porthos walk over here right now. It seem that sometimes we can sense trouble, this uneasy feeling that something is not as it should be. I woke to it. From what I've gathered, Athos did as well."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, not sure what to make from that. He had all seen that these experienced soldiers knew exactly when an attack would take place, as if someone flew by and shouted a warning only they could hear. Athos told him it was not something that could be taught or learnt, it was a survival technique soldiers developed through experience weather they wanted it or not.

D'Artagnan was silently beating himself up about the fact that he did not yet possess that sense, but he hoped that as time passed by, he too would be able to turn around  _before_  anyone shouted his name.

"We need to find Porthos." Athos stated, immediately followed by Aramis' nod. "D'Artagnan, you stay here in case he arrive here. Aramis, you go to his flat. I will search the bars."

"We meet up within the hour?"

Athos gave a nod, then turned to d'Artagnan who was pouting. "What is it now?"

"Why do I have to stay put?"

"Aramis does not have the patience to do so, and the bars are my territory."

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to argue, but by the look of authority in Athos' eyes, he decided it would be better to remain at the garrison and hope Porthos would show himself soon enough.

Athos and Aramis disappeared out of his sight, and d'Artagnan turned on his heels and headed back to the garrison. Placing his hands into his armpits in an attempt to keep them warm, he walked his way over to the stables, figuring he should make sure Porthos hadn't been riding away without them. Pulling the large entry doors open to the stable he walked in, pleased to once again regain some heat from the long rows of stables where horses were happily tucked in, far away from the cold and wind.

He walked down the row of stables, and stopped as a large black head poked out from one of the stables, a soft whinny escaping from the horse's throat. A smile spread across his lips as he lifted his hand to place it underneath the horse's head, giving the chin a good scratch. Her long, pitch-black winter coat tangled with his fingers, and he grinned as he scratched even more thoroughly.

A bay head popped out from the stable next to Buttercup, and d'Artagnan wasn't sure if he was happy or not to see Porthos horse, Flip, look at him with big, curious eyes. D'Artagnan smiled softly, his hand moving to pet the gelding but was quickly stopped by his own, jealous mare as she moved her head to catch his fingers with her muzzle, pressing her nostrils against the palm of his hand.

D'Artagnan sighed as he leaned against the door between him and Buttercup, wondering what would be in store. Maybe Porthos wasn't missing. Maybe he was just laying drunk at the Wren after winning big and celebrating it by drinking, or thrown outside into the dirt as he had lost all his money and wits. Athos might be the drunk of the four of them, but Porthos almost matched him in liquid. The difference was that Athos could actually hold his liquor, years of practice had taught him to drink just beyond oblivion but never too far away from reality. Porthos on the other hand would try jumping between rooftops just because someone asked him to when he had been drinking too much.

A muzzle moved in his long hair, before coming down to rest on his shoulder. Moving his head to rest it against her nose, he closed his eyes and just inhaled the soft scent of the equine animal. It was one of the most amazing scents there was and d'Artagnan knew he would never get tired of it.

* * *

"He was here alright, left just after a new day had begun. He was into the bottles for sure, but walked out by himself."

Athos gave a short nod as he listened to the barkeep, while looking around to see if he could spot any familiar face. It didn't appear so, but he did see a couple of people he had never seen before, and that struck him as odd.

The Wren was a small tavern located in a perfect walking distance to both the garrison, and the Red Guards Headquarters. It was a few blocks away from both Athos' and Porthos' flats, and close enough to most of Aramis' lovers. As long as they were not on duty, most of the Musketeers would hang out here and some point during the day – playing cards, drinking alcohol and  _absolutely_   _not fighting_  duels. Since it was also so close to the Red Guards' territory, they were often seen in here as well, playing cards, drinking alcohol and  _absolutely not fighting_  duels.

The fact that this place often swam with Musketeers and Red Guards, it was rare to see anyone else, anyone not in a uniform, a commoner. It was a sight as unusual as seeing Athos sober, as unusual as seeing Aramis not using the stare, as usual as Porthos not wanting to eat, or d'Artagnan in a hat.

But right at this moment, Athos' eyes wandered across the room to a corner table, where four men were sitting. He couldn't recall he had ever seen those faces before, but the men kept looking his direction, looking away the moment he turned his own glare towards them. They were dressed in raggedy – but not cheap – clothes, dirty from the mud and the clothes worn from years of use. They were dressed all in black, hoods of their cloaks pulled up in what looked like an attempt to cover their faces from the masses.

The sight of the four sent an uneasy feeling through Athos' stomach, one that he couldn't pinpoint, but told him he needed to keep an eye on them. Looking around the room, he saw Pierre and Michael, two fellow Musketeers. Striding across the room he walked up to their table, and placed his hands on it, leaning down towards the two. He instantly got their attention, the two looking up at him with curiosity in their eyes.

"The four men in black by the corner. Do you know how long they have been here?"

"We've been here since early morn, they came just after us." Pierre answered, without looking towards the men. He knew whom Athos meant, as he and Michael had been observing them as well. They looked out of place.

Athos gave a small nod. "I am trying to locate Porthos. Have you seen him of lately?"

"We met him in the door as we arrived, he said he was going to call it a night."

"Did he seem troubled?"

"No, the opposite in fact. Won a couple of good hands, had some drinks, and was in a cheery although a bit drunken state."

Athos nodded again, wondering what had become of his friend. He left a deep sigh before clearing his voice to talk again. "If you see him, please tell him we are looking for him. In the mean time, I ask of you to remain here and keep an eye on those four."

"Absolutely."

"Thank you." Athos gave the men a tiny smile of approval before donning his hat and exiting the Wren.

* * *

Porthos had a small flat just a few blocks from the garrison, a little corner place that Athos had gotten him so he could get out of the garrison. Nowadays Porthos could pay the rent himself with the commission from the regiment, and he loved his little space.

As Aramis arrived there, he was surprised to see a female body sprawled out across the bed, a mop of blonde hair covering her face but there was no mistaking the person even though he couldn't see the face of her. Quickly, although carefully not to spook her, he walked up to the bed and gently placed a hand onto her shoulder. She came to with a start, her upper body rushing up into sitting position, instantly sending a wave of nausea through her. Her hand moved to her mouth, forcing it back down, as her eyes searched for whoever had woken her up.

"Flea, are you alright?"

Flea nodded, her hand moving down to her lap as she looked around the room, her expression showing confusion and worry.

"Yeah. Where's Porthos?"

"We don't know."

Flea's eyes turned wide at his answer, and she instantly got to her feet, almost knocking Aramis over in the process as she scrambled for her jacket. Aramis grabbed a hold of her arm before she had time to reach the door, and gently, but sternly, forced her into a chair.

"Aramis, please, we have to find Porthos!"

"Yes, I agree, but I need you to tell me what happened."

Flea's eyes darted across the room, her fingers twitching in her lap, and Aramis could with ease see just how distraught she was. Something had clearly happened, but he needed her to tell him what they were dealing with if he would be able to help her. Why was she here, without Porthos? He wouldn't just have left her alone, would he?

Aramis head was racing with questions, but knew he would not be able to get any answers out of her unless he calmed her down first. So he knelt in front of her, placing one of his hands on her knee, as carefully as he could as he observed her. Her face was dancing in all colours of the rainbow, and Aramis swallowed hard as his eyes caught the split lip and black eyes. If she had walked in to Porthos like this… Porthos would be hunting someone down for sure. But no matter how angry Porthos would be, he normally went and told Athos or Aramis himself that he was about to rip someone's head off before he did it. He might be hot-headed and wear his emotions on his sleeve, but he was loyal to the bone and would never just shoot off without telling the others.

But maybe this was the exception.

Aramis knew just how much Porthos loved Flea, with all his might. She had been his first love, and she would probably always be, but the two of them had made a consensual decision to 'just be friends' when Porthos had left the Parisian slum districts, that they called the Court of Miracles.

The Court of Miracles, a tangled web of alleys following the city walls, with Rue Neuve-Saint-Sauveur as the main street, was the area were most inhabitants of Paris happily stayed away from. It was called the Court of Miracles, as Athos had told their Gascon upon his first visit, due to many beggars faking handicaps to earn more money while walking the finer streets of Paris, and upon returning to their slum district, they could suddenly see and walk again. Like every day miracles.

Aramis didn't know much of Porthos' past life in the Court, but he knew Porthos had lost his mother at age five, then begged on the streets until he became older and begging became too humiliating. He had found Charon, and the two of them had set up on of the biggest crime organisations the Court had ever seen. Porthos was a brilliant tactician, planning out their moves and everything needed, before Charon sorted out the logistics. It didn't take them long before they were stopped by the "King of the Court", having to share their profits with him. With his greed increasing he helped them expand the business, and it became a counter-society devoted to crime, with a respected hierarchy, their own language and laws. Amongst the stinking, muddy streets were runners, students and teachers, and it became a world they could actually live and thrive in.

But Porthos had told them he never truly enjoyed it, stealing from the rich just because he could. He wanted to earn it, to make a purpose and have a meaning in life, and after saving Aramis that one day in the Court, and becoming Treville's eyes and ears within the Court, he realized there was so much more out there to be done. Good deeds. Things to be proud of. Serve the realm and protect the king. Stand side to side with the best soldiers the world had ever witnessed.

So he had left his birthplace, his street, his friends. And most of all he had left Flea.

And now she was here, in his apartment instead of the Court that she loved dearly, and Porthos was nowhere to be found.

And Aramis was thoroughly confused.

"I came needin' help."

Flea's voice was so low Aramis almost missed it, but as she spoke he leaned closer to be able to hear her. She had turned her head towards the door, almost as if she was expecting Porthos to come barging through it at any minute. Aramis waited patiently as she took a deep breath.

"I came here shortly after midnight… Lookin' for Porthos… No one else is helpin' us and I believe someone is out to clean the Court."

"Clean it?"

"I think someone is killing us. The streets are filled with death, more than we can take care of. We heard rumours, whispers in the shadows, of _le Faucon._  I dunno his real name. I sneaked onto his turf, and h'threw me out. Then I came 'ere, and Porthos promised to help, he was just gonna tell you and Athos and then he would come for me. I must've… I must've fallen asleep."

"So something happened between here and him reaching us." Aramis concluded, a hand coming up to scratch his beard as he realized something had definitely come bad. He had been anxious before – now he was worried.

"What shall we do Aramis?"

"We will track him. Let's leave here, we'll go to Athos and d'Artagnan by the garrison, and then we will see if we can track him. We can go back here, and see if we can find anything along the way towards Athos' place that could give us an idea of what has happened."

Flea nodded, buttoning her warm jacked completely before the two of them left the building, Aramis with a protective arm around her back. She was swaying dangerously, and he had a feeling she had suffered a concussion, but as long as she was moving without trouble, or becoming sick, he figured she would be okay. He had decided to himself the moment he found her though that he would look after her until Porthos came back, because his big friend would never forgive himself if anything were to happen to her. If Porthos weren't around to protect her, Aramis would take that duty upon himself. Therefore he observed her as she moved down the stairs to the frozen ground of Paris, Aramis close behind her, as the two of them hurried off towards the garrison to meet the others and get a start on this mystery that lay before them.


	4. Following clues

**Chapter 3**

By the time Aramis and Flea arrived to the garrison, both Athos and d'Artagnan were already there, the Gascon sitting by the table with a cup of something steaming in his hands, while Athos paced restlessly back and forth, unable to calm down while he worried about his comrades. Upon seeing Aramis coming in with Flea on his side, he instantly stopped, his hands tucked into his armpits, and stared with a question mark on his face.

Aramis didn't say anything as he guided Flea to the bench and she sat down next to d'Artagnan, as Aramis sat down opposite her. Athos was still standing, immobile as he impatiently waiting for an explanation. Having watched from the balcony, it didn't take long for Treville to join them as well by the table, concerned and confused.

"Where is Porthos?" The Captain asked, his eyes darting between the men and Flea.

"I think someone took him." Aramis said solemly, not liking any of this at all. "Flea came to his place last night, asking for help, and he went to find us. He never returned to his apartment, nor did he make it to us."

"Flea, why did you seek his help?"

Flea looked to Athos, took a deep breath and once again explained everything that had happened last night, careful not to leave out any details of sorts. She knew every little bit of information could be valid to these men as they set out hunting clues and right now they didn't have much to go on, and would need everything they could.

"This  _le Faucon_." Treville asked as Flea finished. "Who is he?"

"I dunno his real name. I met him, quickly, before he threw m'out. He's big, taller than Porthos, and wider, dark skin and long braids. There is somethin' familiar 'bout him, but I dunno what."

"Do you believe you've met him before?" Aramis asked carefully.

"I might've, but a long time ago if it were. It's hard to tell, there are so many comin' and goin' through Court that we can't keep track."

"40 000 resides on the streets of the Court." Treville mumbled. "Keeping track of everyone would be an impossible task."

"Do any of you have any idea of why someone would take Porthos?" Treville asked. Athos turned to look at him, having an uneasy feeling in his gut telling him that something was off. Treville seemed agitated, stressed, as if he did not want to be in their company at the moment but following his duty as Captain. Athos couldn't help but to frown, at which Treville waved a hand to. Athos knew the gesture, it meant  _'back off_.'

"I assume that someone followed Flea from Court and the meeting with le Faucon, and then made the connection that Porthos would help. Then they stopped him before he could." D'Artagnan all but speculated, in the same time as a small cough escaped past his lips. This instantly got Aramis' attention, but he quickly dismissed it even though he could tell Aramis didn't like the sound of it.

"Do you believe Porthos know this man?" Athos asked as he begun pacing around the table, not being able to stand still as his mind raced with a million different scenarios of what had happened.

"Porthos know more o'the men than me – he had people working for and with 'im that I never met." Flea said uncertainly, following Athos' steps with her eyes as she began twirling her hair around her index finger.

"Porthos once told me that he, alongside Charon, had their own underground society, run by thefts. Do you believe this man could be from that time?" Aramis cut in, leaning over the table with all his attention to Flea, his gentle demeanour calming her down, and allowing her to take a breath and trust in him.

"They called it ' _the New Life_.' Never before, nor after, has the Court of Miracles seen an organisation as big and profitable as theirs. Porthos and Charon had thousands of people working for 'em – women, children, men, elderly. Everyone wanted to be part of it."

"They must've angered a lot of people." D'Artagnan mused. There was no way they could have such a big crime organisation without angering people along the way to the top.

"Yes, of course. But they only ever took from those who could afford it, the rich and wealthy who had enough to spare. And where anyone ever to come into the Court and go looking… Well you should know that no outsiders will ever find themselves within the Court without the King knowing 'bout it. Every corner o'the Court has eyes and ears, that will report all they see and hear back to the King."

"When you say the King you mean…"

"King of the Court."

"Who is king now?"

"Tison. He's a good man. He will help us if we do require it."

Athos nodded quietly, losing himself in thoughts. If they were to start looking for someone who Porthos had angered years and years ago during their attempts to build a new life, they would be looking forever without ever finding Porthos. And Athos also had a feeling that no matter where Porthos had been taken too, I wouldn't remain for too long. Kidnappers only took people for two reasons – to use them in aid, use them as bait, or trade for a profit. The other reason where that the person taken needed to be silenced and gone. And that was easily done with a bullet between the eyes and a ride out into the deepest of the woods. If they were dealing with the latter, Porthos would already be dead by now. So Athos was hoping that the people that had taken Porthos would find him valuable and spare his life until they needed him. That would buy them time.

And time was everything that mattered right now.

They needed a plan, they needed to make a decision on how to move this along so that they could get Porthos home safe and sound so that their world could begin spinning again. Because without Porthos, it never would.

"Athos, where do we go from here?"

Athos whipped his head around towards the Gascon as he spoke, turning to Athos for help and guidance as they always did. Athos stood quiet for a moment as he thought it all through, contemplating with himself on where they were to start and the means to go about it. As he stood quiet, the others around the table eagerly waited, knowing he needed a moment before giving them orders. Treville might be their Captain, but in situations such as these, even the Captain of the Musketeers took a standstill and allowed Athos to give the calls.

When Athos finally sat down next to d'Artagnan by the table, they all knew he had made up his might, and they were just waiting his words. When he did, his words were directed towards Flea.

"Flea, do you believe, if we went under disguise and followed you inside, that one of us could blend in?"

"You would not be able to. Nor would Aramis. Both of you are very well known within the Court."

"I was more thinking about him." Athos said, a smug smile spread across his lips as he turned towards d'Artagnan.

"He could very well do it. His name is not one travelled through yet, nor is his face well known. With disguise and with my company, I believe he could blend right in."

" _He_  is sitting right here." D'Artagnan mumbled, his head leaned into the palms of his hands as his elbows rested on the table.

"Would you feel comfortable with going inside the Court?" Athos asked, as he turned his attention to d'Artagnan next to him. "I would never doubt your ability to do so, but it's not one of the nicer places of France. You would need to constantly be on guard."

D'Artagnan huffed, a smile spread across his lips as he answered Athos with stern determination. "I can do it."

"Are you sure you are well enough for it?"

D'Artagnan suddenly realized that Athos was not asking if he had the means, skill and survival instinct to survive on the streets of the Parisian ghetto – Athos was asking if he had the health considering his cough. Athos knew very well that d'Artagnan could handle his own, but he would, as they all would, neglect their own health to save a friend in need.

"It's nothing Athos. I promise. If it were to get very bad, you can pull me out. But I am fine, and I will go in there alongside Flea, and we will find Porthos."

"That is settled then." Athos said, before turning to Aramis on the opposite side of the table. "You and I, my friend, will go look for clues. There must be someone who saw something, we need to find the place he was when taken, something to lead us to him. We will also send the word around if anyone have anything on this le Faucon, and see if we can arrange a meeting with him."

"That would be lovely." Aramis grinned. "Do you think he serves tea?"

"I do hope so, every man with dignity drinks tea." Athos smirked as Treville shook his head, placing a hand on Athos' shoulder and met his eyes.

"Tell me if you need more men. Bring him home."

"I can guarantee you Captain, that we will bring him home." Athos said, his eyes tense and body stiff. He would do everything in his power to bring his friend back to them, to where he belonged.

Treville gave a nod before leaving the four by the table, where d'Artagnan sat coughing into his hand in an attempt to hide the wet cough making its way up through his throat. Aramis and Athos were both frowning, even as d'Artagnan waved them off.

"It's really nothing. Come on, don't look at me like that! You know I can do it."

"I do not enjoy putting your health at risk." Athos said as he turned to very stern eyes towards d'Artagnan. "But I need you out there. So I will allow it. Aramis will be the judge. The moment he tells you to pull out, you pull out. Is that an agreement?"

"It is." D'Artagnan nodded. He knew Aramis would never pull him out of anything unless the experienced marksman turned physician knew he was seriously ill. They were soldiers. They would do what they were told until they collapsed. Aramis job was to order them to stop about five minutes before that said collapse.

"Then we should get started." Aramis said, rising to his feet and offering a hand to Flea, guiding her to her feet. He observed her for a moment before he let her go, telling them all to stay put before he hurried off to his own quarters in the garrison. He returned soon thereafter with a small glass jar containing a yellow paste, which he handed to Flea.

"Here. Rub this on those bruises and they should fade, and ease the pain." Aramis smiled as Flea took the jar out of his hand, while Aramis pulled out another little jar and a pouch with leaves. "And this is for you."

D'Artagnan's eyebrows went up as Aramis handed him the jar and pouch, his dark brown eyes stern as he ordered d'Artagnan.

"I do understand you will find this ridiculous, but if we are sending you out onto the streets with a cough like the one you have, I wish for you to rub that on your chest now and then, and the leaves do for a good tea."

D'Artagnan smiled gently as he took the supplies without question, knowing very well that Aramis just wanted what was best for him, even if he felt like telling Aramis over and over again that he was fine, just to keep his pride up. He knew it wouldn't help though, because neither Athos nor Aramis would believe his words.

"You can't go to Court in those clothes." Flea said, eyeing d'Artagnan from down to up. "Stay out until nightfall. I will return with clothes and we'll go in together after dark."

"Are you certain you will be safe in there by yourself?" Aramis asked, immediately biting his tongue as he regretted his question.

Flea turned to him, hands on her hips and a smile across her face, but with seriousness in her eyes that made all men stop to listen.

"Y'all must understand that the Court is my home. No one will ever find me in there unless I wish to be found. I grew up there, I know every corner, ever building and every shadow. I will be fine, don't worry 'bout me. Porthos needs us. I will find you by nightfall. In the meantime I will run mouth a bit in Court and see if I can hear anything."

Aramis smiled gently as he took a bow towards her as she turned on her heels and walked out of the garrison, hurrying back to her place in the Court.

Left in the garrison were the three Musketeers, an odd sight as one of the sturdy rocks in their comradely were missing. Porthos was part of their glue, keeping the foursome tight and together with his laughter, witty remarks and gentle softness. It would not be fair to say that just one of them were the actual glue, keeping them together, because in a way, they were all part of that glue. They all depended on each other and were in need of each other, everyone playing their part in life.

Just seeing three Musketeers in the gate instead of four was a sight no one was used to, nor liked, seeing. They needed to change this before it drove them all insane.

"So where do we start?" Aramis asked, in an attempt to distract himself and his friends. Athos, next to him, had his hands back up into his armspits as he began walking, a slow, but steady walk with determination in the steps. He walked out of the garrison in silence, Aramis and d'Artagnan close on his heels until they reached Porthos' apartment. Athos stopped quietly below the building, staring up at it for a moment before he turned around and begun walking another direction.

"Athos, if I may inquire, where would this journey take us?" Aramis asked carefully without breaking stride behind his leader.

"Porthos left his apartment, to come and find us. Who do you believe he would've walked to find first?"

"Me, of course." Aramis beamed behind him. "Everyone knows Porthos adores me the most."

A small smile of fondness spread across Athos' lips before he directed the question to d'Artagnan.

"Lad, who do you believe Porthos would've gone to get first?"

"You. He would've gone to search for Aramis first had he known where to look. But without knowing that – and he wouldn't know since you two where not together last night – he would've gone to find Athos first."

Athos gave a nod, as his eyes kept looking forward. He didn't need to look behind him to know that Aramis was pouting, only to realize d'Artagnan was right, and he shrugged his shoulders. Athos kept walking, before he suddenly stopped, so suddenly that Aramis walked straight into his back, the two of them stumbling a bit before regaining their balance. Athos shot an angry glare over his shoulder before he turned his attention back to the ground below them, pointing with a gloved hand.

"Boot prints."

Aramis peaked over Athos shoulder and gave a nod as he mumbled. "They are Porthos' alright. I know those big feet by heart."

Athos nodded as well as the trio kept walking, tracking along the streets, following the prints that sure were leading them towards Athos' place. They didn't need to track them for long though, because a few blocks before Athos' apartment they followed the tracks into a small alleyway. Normally most travellers of the street would never leave the bigger roads, but Porthos would not be scared of the alleys, and it would be a quicker route to Athos' place. In a hurry, he would've certainly headed down into the dark alleyways.

They could all easily see from where Porthos had been taken. All of a sudden the footsteps had been surrounded by several other tracks, and Porthos' had abruptly stopped. Messy prints in the snow showed a body on the ground being dragged away into another alley, where two lone, narrow lines were clearly seen alongside hoof prints.

"He was taken down over there, dragged over here, and then loaded into a cart. We could follow the cart tracks, but I'm sure they will lead us out onto the market street, and thereon we will never be able to find the right tracks. There are hundreds of carts rolling along the market street every day." D'Artagnan mumbled as the three of them walked around the street, trying to find anything of value that could help them move on in the search of their friend.

They were all standing still, looking at each other as every one of them kept thinking the same thing. They really had nothing to go on. They needed a clue, a witness, something to get them onto the right path, to guide them on their quest of finding their brother.

Aramis bent down towards one of the street corners and picked up Porthos' hat, brushing off the snow from it and held it close to his chest.

"We need to find him."

"We will find him Aramis. We will."


	5. Unfriendly meeting

"Athos, I want to follow the tracks too, but we will never find the right ones after they hit the market square. There are too many tracks leading out of the city for us to be able to find them. We need someone who saw something, who could lead us into the right direction."

A movement in the shadows caught Athos' attention, away from d'Artagnan who had been speaking. With determined steps he walked in amongst the shadows, leaving Aramis and d'Artagnan in the alley, only to return a moment later, holding a firm grip on a worn looking youngster. The boy was merely a teenager, ragged clothes hung from his thin body, his fingers blue from the cold.

"Hey kid." D'Artagnan said gently as Athos let go of the young one. "We just want to ask you some questions, we have no anger with you."

The kid's eyes darted between the three men, fear shown as he looked towards Athos, but seeing d'Artagnan and Aramis' gentle eyes, he seemed to be calming down. Aramis hunched before the kid, and spoke with soft words.

"Did you see what happened here last night?"

"There was a man... He was in a hurry to get somewhere. Then all of a sudden there were four other men, coming up behind him... He didn't seem to notice them before one of them struck him from behind and he went down like a tree in the woods. They dragged him to a cart and drove off."

"Did you see where they took him?"

"I was curious, so I did follow for a bit... They took him out of the city, heading south along Travelers Road. Then I turned back."

"Thank you kid. You've been of great help."

The kid gave a nod as he rocked on his heels. A slight shiver went through his body as a cold breeze ruffled at his clothes, and he instantly wrapped his arms around him. As Athos inclined his head, the kid set to leave back into the shadows.

"Wait."

The kid stopped in his tracks, a frightened look on his face as he wondered what else the intimidating man would want from him. Athos facial expression remained neutral as he with a swift motion rid himself of his thick woolen boat cloak, and handed it to the kid. The eyes of the kid sparkled, but years of living on the streets made him distrustful of being given things from strangers.

"Take it lad. Keep yourself warm."

Athos words were gentle, and his eyes had warmth in them, enough to calm the kid and have him reach out a thin arm to take the coat from the older Musketeer. They could all hear the scrambling of coins in the exchange, and Aramis smiled fondly as he realized Athos must've placed his coin purse within the cloak.

"Thank you very much Monsieur." The kid whispered, tears filling his eyes, before he was suddenly gone, lost amongst the shadows.

"You got such a gentle heart." Aramis smiled fondly as he placed a hand onto Athos shoulder. Athos shrugged it off quickly, before he begun walking.

"What I possess is plenty of cloaks. I don't believe that kid would have made it through this god forsaken winter without more to keep him warm."

"And the coin purse?"

"He needs it more than I do."

Aramis and d'Artagnan smiled as they followed Athos the last bit to his apartment, walking inside to find himself a new cloak to wrap around himself, and a purse he strapped to his belt and tucked inside his clothes. The trio then emerged from the building, walking down towards the garrison and entering the stables.

The smell of horses, fresh hay and leather hit them as they walked inside, heat stroking their bodies and all three men took a moment to inhale.

"I love the smell of manure in the morning." Athos grinned as he took the lead inside, walking down the aisle until he reached a massive black head, with curly forelocks and grand, wise eyes. A soft whinny escaped Roger's muzzle as warm air escaped his nostrils towards Athos' big hands that he placed before the horse as the two of them said their hello. D'Artagnan and Aramis walked past Athos and Roger to say good morning to their own black beauties in similar ways. Aramis lifted his right arm to place it against Belle's forehead, giving her a small scratch, while d'Artagnan placed both his hands underneath Buttercup's cheek while the mare lifted her head to blow air into his face.

"My love, would you enjoy a ride?" D'Artagnan smiled as he scratched his girl, the horse having a glimmer in her eye as d'Artagnan leaned backwards to kiss her muzzle.

Athos had gone to retrieve his and Aramis' saddles, placing Aramis' down to the ground while the two of them still cuddled, before saddling Roger. A small gasp caught his attention, and looking out above the door he saw Aramis standing bent over his saddle, face twisted in pain, eyes shut tightly.

"Aramis. Leave it alone. I'll saddle her for you."

"I can do it."

"I know you can, but I would prefer if you did not. Your shoulder is still bothering you, I can tell so, no matter how much you try to disguise it for me."

Aramis was going to object, but he knew Athos saw straight through him so he figured it would do him no good. Forcing the pain back, he brought his hand to the sore shoulder to rub the pain away while he walked away to the tack room to find their bridles as d'Artagnan went to get his tack as well. Returning, Athos had both Belle and Roger saddled, and took his bridle from Aramis, but stopped to observe Aramis as he placed the bridle on his horse.

Athos couldn't help but to smile once again as he watched Aramis place the bit in his hand, and Belle placed her head above his right shoulder, and leaned down far enough to allow Aramis to put the bit in her mouth without having to raise his arms. As the bit slid in over her tongue, he moved aside and she lowered her head even further down to allow him to place the crown piece behind her ears.

The three men walked out of the stable and mounted their horses in the yard of the garrison, riding out they followed the market street until reaching the city gates. Taking a moment to wrap their cloaks closer around them, they headed south along the road often called Travellers Road as it took a lot of traffic.

They rode in silence, the wind harsh when the road was large and ground flat, no trees to hold back the roaming wind. They could barely hear their own thoughts above the rush of it, and snow fell fast and cold at them, sticking to their cloaks and colouring their horses white. All three of them unconsciously wrapped their cloaks even tighter around themselves.

Half an hour later the road turned into a calmer area where trees covered the sides of the road, allowing them a pause from the wind and snow that came crashing down upon them. It was a nice relief as the trees provided shelter, but they all knew trees also provided hiding spots for thieves, and therefore they all three were suddenly on guard immediately. The horses could immediately sense their insecurity, and they were also immediately on guard, but they could tell their masters insecurity from their sixth sense that told them something was wrong, and therefore they kept walking on as they always did, but prepared in case their masters told them to beware.

They didn't make it far though until Belle began sidestepping, snoring loudly and whipping her head around. Aramis placed a hand on her withers and made soothing sounds, as he too looked around. She was the fidgety one out of them, but she normally stayed calm when the other horses did.

She suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, her ears pricked forward and her big head held high as she whipped her head around to stare out into the dark woods, where the thin rays of the sun that made it through the dark clouds didn't travel. Roger and Buttercup stopped as well, all three horses looking the same direction, snorting loudly, Roger kicking with his front legs in anticipation.

It was safe to say that all three horses could hear something, and within a second, all three men ha unsheathed their swords, prepared for an attack. They trusted their horses just as much as they trusted each other, and they knew none of their horses reacted this way unless something was creeping up on them.

They just didn't expect the attack to come from behind them.

Belle reacted first, twirling around with a quick bounce that almost dropped Aramis on the cold ground, her metal shoes slipping on the ice and her legs going out from under her. Aramis had his fingers laced into her mane in an attempt to keep his balance, and Belle fought her hardest to keep her footing, miraculously managing to do so, bumping into Roger and Athos who too had turned around. Belle was panting hard as she regained her footing, her eyes slick backwards and her head low as one of the attackers came up from behind her. A quick glance behind her and Belle sent both her hind legs straight back, hitting the man square in the chest and sending him reeling backwards before he had time to do any kind of damage.

Athos had dismounted before the quick had even landed, and was already engaged in a sword fight with two men, as d'Artagnan easily took the fourth out without even dismounting from Buttercup's back. Aramis barely had time to blink before Athos had his two men on their knees, and d'Artagnan had his sword towards the third man's throat.

"Aramis, are you unhurt?"

Aramis pressed his heels towards Belle's sides, his hand into his saddle bag and pulling out ropes that he handed to Athos as he nodded his answer to his leader.

"Yes, a bit startled. I'm well."

"Would you have a look at the unfortunate soul who met the shoes of Belle?"

Aramis glanced behind him before he dismounted from Belle, walking over to the man who had remained unmoving behind them. Kneeling besides the man, he could tell the man was still breathing, but just barely. There was blood escaping past his lips every time he hitched a tiny breath, and as Aramis placed a hand on his chest he could feel the strong chest bone give in. Aramis removed his hat, placing it against his chest as he prayed for the man's soul as it left his body.

By the time the man had died, Athos had the other three men tied up and lined on a row behind Roger, his head low as Aramis gave a shake of the head. Athos inclined with a nod as he turned to the three men that had attacked them.

"We will take care of your friend and allow him a burial. You will wait patiently here. If anyone of you try anything foolish, my horse will make sure you follow your friend sooner than you'd like to."

With the warning hanging in the air, the three Musketeers helped to get the fourth attacker up on the rear of Roger, hanging his limp body across Roger behind the saddle, before the three of them mounted again. They turned their horses and handed back to the city, emerging from the trees back out into the windy road, the strong current almost knocking all men to the ground as it hit them without warning.

Back safely within the city walls, the musketeers dropped off their dead attacker by the church, Aramis having a talk to the priest about keeping the body until they were able to bury him. The men then continued to moved down the street until they reached a abandoned building, one they had used plenty of times as they knew no one came into it, knowing they would be left alone there. The angry glare from Athos could've carried all three attackers down into the basement of the building all by itself, but a small push down the stairs did help to get a move on things.

Athos turned his head to Aramis who had done the pushing, his head on his side and a look of 'Was that really necessary?' as the three men landed in a big pile at the bottom of the stairs.

"What? My hand slipped."

"Mhm." Athos sighed as he walked down the stairs, grabbing a hold of the rope holding the three men and pulled all three back up on their feet in the same time by a harsh pull on the rope, tying them down towards steel bars against the wall.

"We will never talk." One of the men mumbled, and Athos turned to face him. He stood quiet and stoic for a moment before his fist connected with the man's jaw, his head whipping to the side with a hard crack. The eyes of all the other men in the room popped wide open in surprise, as Athos grabbed a hold of the man's jaw with hard, crushing fingers, his face inches from the man's.

"We want to know where our friend is. We will not release you until you talk. You have the right to chose if you would like to speak or not, but remember that if you do not speak, you will die down here."

Athos let go of the man's jaw, took a step back and observed the three men, waiting for any of them to open their mouths. No one spoke for a very long time, just observing each other and waiting for each other, waiting for someone to start.

"We will never talk." One of the other men echoed his partner's words. "The man taken deserved everything coming to him."

Aramis was at him within a moment, both his hands ripping at the man's clothes as he too placed his face an inch away from the man, breathing down his face. "If you hurt Porthos I will personally rip your head from your shoulders."

"Aramis." Athos said, a hand on his right shoulder, pulling him back from the man, pushing him away from them, before turning to the three. If glares could kill, all three of them would've melted on the spot from the lethal glare Athos sent them, his words coming out in a dark, deep rumble from his throat.

"You have one more opportunity to talk before we leave you to starve down here."

It was time for the third man to open his mouth, and he parroted his two friends just the same. "We will never talk."

Athos bowed his head, and without a word he began walking up the stairs, with Aramis and d'Artagnan close on his heels. As the trio made it up the stairs and back up into the street of Paris, they all huddled closely together, Aramis and d'Artagnan turning to Athos for guidance once more.

"What now?"

"We wait. They will talk, eventually. Flea should return in a few hours. In the meantime I believe we should get something to eat, we haven't had breakfast and d'Artagnan will need to eat all he can before entering the Court. Food is not in supply in there."

"I don't think I can eat anything at the moment." Aramis mumbled, his gaze low and hands hidden underneath his cloak.

Athos turned to his friend, grabbing him by his upper arms and giving him a slight shake.

"Don't you dare give up so easily. We will find Porthos even if it's the last thing we do. I will not abandon him and neither will you. We are going to do everything in our power to find him. We will go to the Wren and talk to the girls and barkeeper to see if anyone knows anything about these men. Flea and d'Artagnan will search within the Court and find everything they know of le Faucon. We will pay him a visit. We will get Porthos back. Do you hear me?"

Aramis looked up to meet Athos' eyes, and upon seeing the stubborn look in his leader's eyes, he couldn't help but to nod. Yes. Yes, they would find Porthos. There was no question about it. They would search day and night, to the moon and back and behind every tree in the woods, and in every basement of France if necessary. They would eventually find him. That was a certainty.

The question remained if they would be able to find him fast enough?


	6. Court of Miracles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So I couldn't sleep, and wrote this instead, even though I'm going to work in a few hours. I hope you enjoy. And unless i amaze myself tomorrow, this will be the last piece before New Years Eve. I hope you all have a good one. See you next year!_

As the darkness laid its blanket across the Capital of France, the men were gathered at the garrison. Serge had been serving them plenty of food through out the day, and they had been talking, discussing for hours about how to proceed. But they were none the wiser.

Suddenly a rush of motion and clothes placed down on the table made them all turn their heads, looking over to Flea who was pacing restlessly around them. All three men looked up at her, noticing without having to look twice that she was distressed. Aramis reached out a hand, laying it gently on her lower arm as she walked past him.

"Flea, please speak to us."

Flea's eyes darted sideways several times before she sat down in a quick motion next to Aramis by the bench, her elbows on the table and head disappearing into her hands, allowing her blonde hair to fall down in front of her. She took a few deep breaths before she managed to collect herself enough to speak.

"There are more dead. There are piling up… And they begun burning 'em."

"I was wondering where the smell came from." Aramis mumbled.

Paris normally smelled, with everyone emptying their buckets out through the window straight to the streets, there was no wonder, but the snow and cold had eased up on that smell as most of it froze, or landed in the snow. That was the only good thing about winter, the ground being so cold, that the piss people tossed out could not turn to mud, but froze into a scentless road of ice, covered in snow.

Today had been different though – it had started a few hours ago as smoke slowly crept in through the streets of Paris along with the wind. They had all felt it, the smoke had laid thick through the streets for hours, and the smell of burning flesh was not easily mistaken. Most Parisians had moved indoors with windows shut, trying to rid the stench of burning bodies. Even the Musketeers sat with their noses buried in their cloaks or scarfs, trying to breath through it.

"They're bein' slaughtered. But I don't know who."

"Flea, do you know where we can find le Faucon? We would like to have a talk to him."

"You know of the abandoned blacksmith by le Pont Notre-Dame?"

"Of course. It was us who emptied it when the blacksmith begun hammering people instead of shoes." Aramis nodded, with a slight shake of his head. It had been some interesting bust.

"That's where I found him. But that will not mean he's still there. I heard word that the building is once again empty."

"I assume he will be moving around to make certain he is not caught." Athos mused. "Try to hear where he is now. Follow if you can. Do not go meet him alone. Send word to us and we will help."

Flea nodded, before Athos turned to d'Artagnan who had been patiently listening. "Are you calm about this?"

"Athos, I will be fine. Let me do it."

Athos gave a small nod, and d'Artagnan hurried away to change his clothes into the ones Flea had brought him. As he left, Athos turned back to Flea.

"Flea. I want you to give me your word that if he comes ill, you send him out of there."

"You 'ave my word. I will take him in through a smaller street, and introduce him to Tison and make sure he is involved into the organisation. Only through that can he truly be part of the life of the Court. Tison is good. He is on our side."

"I believe Charon was as well." Athos mumbled as he looked sternly into Flea's eyes. He didn't like sending his apprentice into the lion's den without proper backup, especially not with that kind of cough escaping his lips. He knew Porthos trusted Flea, and he would trust her with his life, but he didn't know Flea well enough to be ready to trust her with d'Artagnan's life. The only reason he even considered all of this, was because he knew Porthos would.

But she wasn't a soldier, she wasn't trained in combat nor war strategy, she didn't have any kind of training to fight. But she had skills that could never be taught by a book or a sword master. She had survival instincts. She was streetwise and her skin tough as leather. Nothing would get through her unless she allowed it. First time they met she had taken a bullet and still walked away. And that's what convinced Athos that d'Artagnan would be safe in her hands.

"Charon was never the same after Porthos left. I did never think he would do what he tried to do, but Charon was different. He always hated the Court, always believes to be better than everyone and didn't care much for other human beings. Tison is not like that. He cares. He wants to help. He even pledged to the King, who would have none of it."

"The King hates the Court, unfortunately." Aramis said. "He will not destroy it himself, but neither will he stop anyone who is."

"I've come to that realization." Flea muttered, in the same time as someone very familiary looking to d'Artagnan stepped up to them. His clothes were too large, raggedy and had been stitched, and restitched, in most places. They looked like rice bags as they hung limply from d'Artagnan's slender figure.

"They are a little too large for me." D'Artagnan grinned as he waved the sleeves around.

"They used to belong to Porthos." Flea grinned. "They were the only clothes belonging to a man that I could find with short notice. But if you'd prefer, you can borrow one of my dresses."

"Yes!"

"No!"

D'Artagnan and Aramis seemed to have a glaring competition while Athos gave a chuckle, turning to Flea. "He will grow into them. Is there anything you two need before you disappear?"

"I believe we are all set." Flea gave a nod, rising to her feet as she eyed d'Artagnan from down to up, a pleased smile on her face. "I do believe you could fit into one of my dresses."

"Yes, I believe so too."

"Quiet Aramis. And no, thank you. I'm sure your dresses are beautiful Flea, but I believe I prefer Porthos' clothes, even if that man is a giant."

With those last words, Flea and d'Artagnan looked to their right and left before disappearing into the shadows of the dark Parisian night, leaving Aramis and Athos alone by the table. The two of them sat quiet for a moment before Athos grabbed a hold of his hat, placing it on his head, before taking Aramis' hat and pushing it down on top of Aramis' head, the hat ending up sideways, tilting into his line of sight. Aramis mumbled something incoherent as he got to his feet and followed Athos, taking a deep sigh as he realized Athos was, once again, not telling him where they were heading.

"So, my friend, care to share your thoughts with me."

"We need to find Porthos."

"I knew  _that_." Aramis sighed loudly, before beaming on a smile. "What I don't know is to where we are heading now?"

"The Wren. I can't think clear on a sober mind."

Aramis shook his head slightly as he followed the leader into the bar, ordering a bottle of Armagnac before walking over to Athos' favourite table in the corner or the room. There were two men sitting there upon their arrival, but Athos only needed to meet their eyes for them to decide it would be better to find another place to sit. Athos and Aramis sat down, and Athos poured them both before heaving his glass and refilling.

"Do you believe this man killing people of the Court was once involved in Porthos' organisation?" Aramis mused, as he tasted the fine brandy of Athos' choosing.

"I believe so yes. I wonder if the men being killed were also tied to the organisation."

"Could be. But that would be difficult to find out. To know, we need to find someone who could tell us who they were, we need someone who were a part of the organisation as well back then, who could identify the dead."

"I doubt anyone would be willing to speak freely about participating in one of the biggest crime organisations Paris has ever seen."

"Oh Athos. Who said anything about speaking  _freely_?"

* * *

"Just follow me. The most important thing about the Court of Miracles is to blend in. If you act like you belong there, believe will believe you do. I kno' you're a man of honour and rules, but things like that doesn't exist in here. People just wanna get by. Don't trust anyone, and don't care about anyone else. In the end, it's all about your own survival. Everyone is playin' their own game to get through the day."

D'Artagnan gave a nod and hid his cough into his gloved hand as the two of them had suddenly emerged into the midst of the slum quarters of the Parisian ghetto. He had been in here before, when they had stormed it in search of Porthos when Charon was trying to blow them all up. But that had literally been a moment of following Athos in, stop Charon and get out as quickly as they could. In all honesty, Court of Miracles frightened him a bit, mainly because it was so very much different from everything he had grown up with. He was a Gascon boy, used to ploughing the earth and harvesting the crops, waving friendly to his neighbour and helping everyone who came in need of aid. You trusted your neighbours with all your might, cause those were the ones to help you were you ever troubled.

Everyone in Gascon was open and friendly. No one had much, but everyone had a little piece of land and some cattle to get everyone through their lives. They were stubborn, hard workers who would rise before the sun did and go to bed many hours after the sun had set. They would milk their cows and sheep, feed the hens and brush their horses. They would care for the earth and water the plants. They worked seven days a week, every day of the year. It was a tough life.

But it came nowhere near what d'Artagnan was about to discover here, and he knew it. Life on the street was tough as well, but in a whole different way. In a way you could be killed over a pouch of grain, or for trying to steal food to your starving family. It was a place you couldn't run from, not even when winter broke loose and covered the streets in inches of freezing cold snow. When the temperature dropped far below freezing, having all puddles freeze over just as quickly as those people without shelter froze to death on the streets. Without heath to hide by, you would not make it through the night. D'Artagnan knew that as he saw people trembling, shivering along the walls. Winter was harsh. Winter when you lived on the street was lethal.

D'Artagnan knew he would be saved from that faith a least as Flea guided him inside a building, a building where a fireplace was warm in the middle of the room, and the floor covered in blankets.

No – no, not blankets. They were moving. At first sight d'Artagnan thoughts blankets and clothes had been spread out throughout the room, but upon further inspection he noticed it was humans, people in all their shapes and forms spread out across the room, sleeping huddled up, trying to drain every bit of heath that they could. Even inside, d'Artagnan could feel the cold breeze, and he realized that the shelter didn't completely shield them from the harsh gusts. To survive, to sleep without being cold, one would have to cuddle up to others, to share each other's body heat. That was the only way. And in here, people were certainly taking advantage of each other, as they were huddled up in big piles. Women, children and men all the same, even a dog or two.

Bed sheets had been placed against the walls, in an attempt to keep the worst of the cold out, in an attempt to isolate the room and close out the temperature. Furniture was unnaturally placed against the walls as well, in a similar attempt. The fire in the middle of the room was growing strong, but even so Flea walked over to it, with careful grace not to step on anyone, and upon reaching the glowing fire she added more logs to it, allowing it to sparkle anew, with flames reaching high.

D'Artagnan had a feeling they never let that fire die. If it were too, it would take more than just it's own flames with it down into the ashes.

"You must be Albert."

D'Artagnan spun around upon the voice, and turned to see a man in front of him. Tall, stoic, with upper arms bigger than Porthos' that were clearly visible through the fur he was wearing. White of skin with a clean shaved shin but long blonde hair reaching his shoulders. His right hand was reached out for d'Artagnan to shake, but d'Artagnan was looking at him with question in his eyes. Albert?

"Oh, yes Tison, this is 'im I told y'of."

Playing along, d'Artagnan shook his hand and flashed him a smile. "Yes, I am. You must be Tison."

"I must be, yes. Flea said you're new in Paris. Where were you born?"

"Gascony."

"You travelled far."

"I lost my parents and my farm was burned to the ground, and I travelled here to find my luck."

"Considering you're in my territory, I assume you did not find it?"

"Only bad luck I'm afraid."

The big man with the light blue eyes grinned as he let go of d'Artagnan's hand. "We know what you're fighting through. We have all lost – or never gained – parts we never wished to. But we do whatever we can here to get by, and live our lives to the fullest anyway. Flea vouched for you, said you are a man with skills and trustworthy to the core. Therefore I am allowing you into my home. You just need to make yourself sparse, I do let a lot of people, as you can see, in here."

"He can stay in my quarters Tison, and you can bring someone else here into the warmth if you'd like." Flea quickly interrupted from behind, and Tison gave a nod.

"If he's no trouble, then let it be. If you ever require any help or guidance, don't hesitate to find me."

"Thank you." D'Artagnan smiled, and with that, Tison and his followers turned on their heels and disappeared out of the building, as Flea tugged at d'Artagnan's sleeve and told him to follow her.

They headed back out onto the streets, unconsciously wrapping their clothes tighter around them as the wind grabbed hold of them once again. They didn't move far outside before Flea turned a corner and d'Artagnan almost lost her as she moved inside through what looked like a crack in the wall, but actually were an alley. Following Flea through the alley, she suddenly turned again and went feet first through a hole in the stone wall, and climbed her way down. D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, but wasn't slow on following her down. As his feet went through the wall, he could feel a latter below his feet, and he climbed down until he was on safe ground.

Looking around he realized he was in a basement, and a rather big one at that. It was sparsely decorated with the small stuff you needed in life – a pot for cooking, mattresses on the floor, a chest most likely containing clothes and a fireplace in the midst of it all. Flea immediately went on about lighting the fire, as she told d'Artagnan to cover the hole they had come in through to keep the cold out. Looking up, d'Artagnan saw a string hanging down along the wall, and as he pulled on it, a thick, mattered, old blanket fell down from the roof, hanging perfectly to cover the hole. D'Artagnan grinned as he turned to Flea who had gotten full life on the fire, and was now warming her hands.

"I sleep there." She said, nodding to one mattress. You can take the other. Do you have any questions so far?"

"Just the one."

"Shoot."

"Albert?"

"Oh, yes. I know your name is not one travelled through here a lot, but I thought it might be stupid to use it anyway. So I renamed you. You're Albert Moulin."

"That could be good to know." D'Artagnan smiled, and then spent the remaining part of the night mumbling the name over and over, hoping he would not forget it as the cold crept in through the walls. They slept with their clothes on and several blankets covered them, but d'Artagnan still found that he was shivering. The cough escaped against his wishes, and he had a feeling he would regret telling Athos that he would be fine.

But it was too late to back out now.


	7. Things in common

**Chapter 6**

As morning rose over the land once again, d'Artagnan found himself cold to the bone, involuntarily shivering and his cough had become a real issue as it would not let him have a break. He rolled up into foetal position and tried to control his breathing, and it took him longer than he wished to confess, before it evened out into small hacking sounds. Opening his eyes, he realized he was not in his own little room at the garrison, but in what looked to be a basement.

Movement next to him had him on edge and he quickly sat up, prepared for danger that were to come. Seeing the mop of blonde hair he remembered what had gone down yesterday. Porthos missing. Flea coming. Bringing him into the Court of Miracles. That's where he was. In the ghetto quarters of Paris, fighting against the inevitable cold, while trying to find out who had taken Porthos, and why they did so.

Porthos had merely been missing for a day, but d'Artagnan was sick of it already. He wanted his friend and brother back, and he wanted to catch the person responsible for his disappearance.

"You good?"

D'Artagnan turned to meet Flea's worried eyes, and gave her a small nod as he exited from his bed, if you could call it so. It was a mattress, and surely one that had seen it's better days. But it could be worse. He could freeze to death out in the streets in the snow. He shouldn't complain. And when all of this was over, when Porthos was safely back home and the person killing all the people of the Court was safely behind bars, he could go home to his lodgings at the garrison, warm up by a massive fireplace and get food served to him by Serge.

He shouldn't complain.

Flea gave him a small smile before she handed him a plate. D'Artagnan took it from her with a questioning look on his face, which soon turned to a smile as he sat down in one of the two chairs of the room. On his plate were some sausage, two eggs and a piece of bread. D'Artagnan had a feeling Flea had not bought him the breakfast, but he was too hungry to care about eating stolen goods. Normally he would care, but here, in Court, you ate whatever you could get your hands on. So he ate.

"I've been thinkin'." Flea suddenly said, as she too ate from her own plate, which contained the same things as d'Artagnan's.

D'Artagnan looked up at her, while popping the bread into his mouth. "About what?"

"All the people dyin'. I've been tryin' to decide what they 'ave in common, but so far I haven't felt anything to bind them all. But I was thinkin' this morning, that some of them I recognize from Porthos' and Charon's organisation. Not all of 'em, but I am not familiar with everyone involved with it either. Porthos never let me be part of it. He didn't want to put me at risk."

"You believe someone is killing all the people who were a part of the organisation?"

"It's possible, isn't it? Someone who 'ad anger with Porthos? Maybe someone who was once part of it, but got caught or Porthos threw 'im out?"

"It's definitely possible. I was thinking I should go snooping around, talk to people and see if I can find anything out. Ask them about the organisation and mention le Faucon to see if it brings anything up on the table."

"I can ask around too. But you need to be careful, not everyone 'ere are friendly, not everyone likes being asked questions, and the New Life is both loved and hated around here. It made some rich. It gave some a reason to leave the Court. It helped some people create new lives. But it put a lot of people behind bars as well, and ruined lives of other. The emotions are mixed and if you end up talking to the wrong people it could go very bad."

"I can handle it."

Flea's head turned around, her blonde hair swirling with the movement. Her eyes stopped to stare at him, with so much seriousness in her eyes that d'Artagnan almost choked on his egg.

"No. You can't. If you end up with the wrong crowd in 'ere, you will find yourself thrown out a window, or floatin' in  _la Seine_. I know you're all though men, but you are just one man, and one man can be very lonely in here."

D'Artagnan didn't say anything, but he did lower his head and finished his breakfast, which Flea took as an agreement that he would not go out to do anything stupid. D'Artagnan had made no such promise though. He was in here to help out, to find out who had taken Porthos, and why. He was in here to find le Faucon, and he was in here to find answers that could not be found from the outside of the Court. He heard Flea's words, and he understood the danger, but his pride would not allow him to stay down in a basement while a woman walked out on the streets to seek answers. No, that would be no good.

And that's why, the minute Flea had left him alone, he got out as well.

The cold hit him instantly, even though the buildings kept the harsher winds out, and saved him from the heavy snowfall surrounding the capital. Even so, he subconsciously pulled his loosely fitted garments around himself, coughing into his gloved hand, and pressed on, looking to his right and left, trying to decide where to go.

He had no idea where anything was located inside the Court. He didn't know which are would be safer or more dangerously to show himself in, and he didn't know which people he should stay away from. Some part of his mind begged him to do as Flea had told him, and stay back while she brought him answers, but as earlier, his pride would not let him. He would not stay back and allow a woman to seek justice for his friends disappearance, and he would not let a woman risk her life when he relaxed in bed. It was not about to happen that way.

So trusting his gut instinct, he turned down one of the alleys, keeping his head down low and his feet quick as he turned down the street, looking for a place where people would be crowding. He soon entered upon a smaller market place, where people were sitting along the roads, huddling towards the walls of the buildings, shielding from the winds. He saw people looked up at him as he walked by, but never much more than just a glance before looking away again.

He walked for a while, before spotting a group of men looking his way without hiding their glances and pointing fingers. As he turned his eyes to them, one of the men looked up at him, and met him with a nod of invitation. D'Artagnan took as deep of a breath as his sore lungs would allow, before walking up to the group.

"New around here?" One of the men instantly asked as d'Artagnan came close. D'Artagnan looked him from down and up, all of their clothes just as raggedy, and all of them as skinny looking and paled faced as the rest of the inhabitants of the Court. The accent of the man speaking though was nothing d'Artagnan could recognize, even if he understood his French.

"Could say that." D'Artagnan nodded.

"French boy." Another of the men spoke. "Where'd you come from?"

"Gascony."

"South." One of the men added, a smile curving on his lips, and d'Artagnan gave a nod along with the first man who had spoken.

"Yes. I lost my farm and came to Paris looking for work. Appears to be harder to find that I had first believe it to be."

"We have all noticed that." The first, man spoke.

"How long have you been within the Court?"

"André and Christophe were born here in Court. The rest of us have been rolling in sporadically. I can hardly remember when I arrived here, but it was probably close to ten years ago. Same as you, I came here looking for work, fame and fortune. I might've had it for a while… But then luck run short."

"What does that mean?"

"When I first came here, there was a… a society, if you will. We were great… We would pillage and plunder but only by those who could afford it. Two great men were in control of it all and they made sure everyone had a part to play, they made sure it was all done correctly and they made sure the winnings were evenly distributed. But all things had to come to an end, and there was one bust that made one of the leaders back out for good. The two of them fought, fought badly, and they parted. Things have been on a downhill spiral since then."

"I heard words of the New Life. Is that what you are talking of?"

"Hush lad. We don't say it out loud. But yes, that is the one I mean. It was once the greatest organisations the Court had ever witnessed."

"Why did it break up?"

"A mission gone wrong. It was one of the biggest missions there had been, several groups attacking different targets at once. One of the groups was heading to the Royal Chambers, and they came back with more riches that no one could've ever imagined. But to perform it, they needed The Musketeers to look in another direction, so the two leaders set one of the groups up. A small group, four or five in there, most of them just young lads. They told the Musketeers were to find them and what would happen, and the entire group was thrown in the Chatelet in the same time as the King was robbed. The missions were successful, but that's when the leaders begun fighting. Porthos didn't like to set up men who trusted in him. Charon felt he could sacrifice a few souls to give wealth to the rest. Porthos did not."

D'Artagnan gave a nod. "I see where there could be an argument. Why doesn't anyone speak of it anymore? Everyone knew it broke up, many years ago. Do people still hold anger?"

"No one has spoken of it in many years. Then, I'm sure you noticed the bodies they are burning in the square, the bodies of men and women being killed in the alleys? I can not be certain, there were a lot of people within the organisation, but I know a lot of the dead ones were part of it."

"People who were once part of the organisation are frightened?"

"We're not frightened. We are just being careful, that's all. If the people ending up dead are because of once being a part of it, the no one needs to know we  _were_  once part of it. It's the safest way."

D'Artagnan gave a nod, seeing what the man in front of him meant. They weren't certain why the people were being killed, but it seemed that more than just Flea believed it to be because of the organisation. D'Artagnan walked up closer to him, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"Do you know who le Faucon is?"

"No. I've heard of him, but I do not know who lies behind that name. I wish I did."

D'Artagnan gave a nod. "I must be on my way. There's a lot to explore around here. Do you have any pointers I should know of?"

"I only have one tip for you – turn around and go back to Gascony. There is no life to be lived here. You will never reclaim your life in the slum. You'd be better off rebuilding a farm back home."

"I can not go back home."

"Then you will die with us in the gutter."

D'Artagnan gave a snort, before lowering his head. "The one who lives will tell."

"We'll see you around, I'm sure."

D'Artagnan shook hands with him before he turned down the street, eager to share his new information with Athos and Aramis, but the day was still young. He should have time to talk to plenty of more people before he headed out of the Court to meet up with them. Hopefully they would have some information for him as well by then.

Rounding the corner, he didn't make it far until five big men blocked his path. The men were big, taller and wider than d'Artagnan, and all of them definitely looked like they had been through rough times during their lives. Scars were visible across their faces, but the anger in their eyes was the sole thing that made d'Artagnan stop dead in his tracks. He could feel the chill run down his spine, and he instantly knew these were some of the men Flea had warned him for.

"My apologies." D'Artagnan said, instantly putting his hands up into the air and beginning to back off. It was too late though, he knew that as the men gained on him quickly, anger in their entire stance and brutality shown in their eyes.

"Snoopin' around. That's what you were doin'. If you snoop 'ere you might just lose that nose of yours." One of the men in the front said, walking closer to a reversing d'Artagnan.

"I… I must've walked lost. My apologies. I will leave instantly." D'Artagnan bowed, and turned towards the door to make himself scarce before they became violent. But upon turning around, he noticed there was a man twice his size standing, blocking, the path. Blocking the way out. D'Artagnan exhaled. He knew he had made a mistake, and these guys would not just let him go.

"He's been askin' questions about the New Life. No one talks of it anymore." One of the men behind him said to his friends, his arms wide as he walked closer to d'Artagnan. "No one talks of it, unless they want to loose their head."

"I have no desire for such things. I very much enjoy my head." D'Artagnan mused, but the men in front of him did not seem at all amused.

"All who speak o'it ends up dead. We 'ave no such desire. So don't y'dare come talk to us 'bout it."

Their words had d'Artagnan's brain voicing more questions, curious to what they could be referring to. These were now the third group of people who believed that the dead people all came from the same organisation, that they all had that one thing in common. Was someone hating on that organisation, and trying to rid of it for good? Was that why Porthos had been kidnapped?

D'Artagnan knew he would not get the answers to his questions out of these guys, because while his head was still mumbling theories, the men in front of him moved in closer, and sooner than d'Artagnan expected, a fist moved in his direction.

Quick reflexes had saved his life before, and by ducking that fist missed its intended target, which appeared to have been his jaw. Another fist aimed for him the moment he straightened his back, but he quickly gripped the man's wrist, twirled him out of harm's way and rammed him into the wall with his shoulder towards the man's chest.

Two strong hands grabbed his shoulders from behind and roughly pulled him backwards, forcing his back into a wall, resulting in his head bouncing hard into the stone. Two more hands quickly joined in from behind and the brutal strength of two men were too much for a sick d'Artagnan to hold back from. They had him down on his back before he knew it, and a hard kick to his side had him gritting his teeth. The heel of a boot landed hard into his ribs, but he refused to cry out, nor close his eyes. They could kick him all they wanted, but he would not back down. He refused to.

Another kick in the same spot had him seeing black dots before him, and even though he was thrashing with every once of his body, bucking against the men holding him down, it was to no use. He wasn't sure how many they were, but they were certainly enough men to keep him down. One on each leg, one on each arm. It hardly seemed fair.

A man stood above him and stomped down hard straight on his chest, forcing all the air out of his lungs, and d'Artagnan found himself wheezing, not being able to stop the coughing the action brought with it. His upper body ached with every cough, and he could feel tears puddling in his eyes. It didn't matter how much he tried to fight it, his chest felt like it had been bound with an iron band, and everything soon began fading. The never-ending kicks to his abdomen, side and chest faded off into a grey haze, and he didn't have the energy to continue fighting as all his focus was on the seemingly impossible task of merely breathing.

Just as he was thinking that he would probably die in the arms of these men, the leader spoke words of relief.

"I believe he learnt 'is lesson."

The voice was clouded, appearing to be far away in the distance, but d'Artagnan knew that was just his mind playing tricks. His surroundings were all blurring together into one huge mess, but he did notice the weight on his legs disappearing, and the weight on his arms suddenly pulled him up into standing position.

He instantly doubled over as the pain got the most of him, and the only reason to why he didn't fall flat on his face was the two men still holding his weight up. They didn't seem to care though that he could not rise, instead they roughly dragged him outside, and casually dumped him into the cold, frozen mud of the back alley.

Much to his gratefulness, that's where they left him, left him to cough his lungs out and left him to freeze to death unless he moved soon enough. He knew he had to get out of there, out of the street and back into the warmth that was Flea's fireplace. Into dry clothes and a cup of something hot to drink to warm him up from the inside.

But moving was out of the option, as his full concentration was still on trying to take a breath. Every inhale had him wheezing it back out, his eyes tearing still and his entire body rejecting the air while still craving it. His face buried in the snow, his breath coming in short puffs, and the cold seeping in through his skin faster than he could recover from the abuse he had just suffered from. He could already feel the trembling reaching his body, and his brain was screaming for him to get up and get out of there, but he could not get his body to comprehend and follow the demands made by his mind. He just couldn't.

So he stayed there in the snow, and prayed that someone would find him before it would be too late.


	8. Information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. Thanks for continued feedback, you are amazing. I'm as always apologizing about being slow… Life has just taken a massive turn for me (all for the better I hope!) but as I'm swooning around on Cloud Nine, I'm not getting a lot of writing down. I did make this a bit longer than usual in an attempt to make you all forgive me. Thank you! :)

"How is d'Artagnan?" Aramis said, as he kept an eye on Athos, who was pacing up and down the small back room of the Wren, worry displayed all across his face. It was without a doubt the same worry Aramis was feeling inside as well.

"Tison and 'is men managed to get 'im warm, he was shakin' like a leaf in the fall when they found 'im." Flea asked as she stood before Aramis, her fingers fumbling as she spilled what had happened to the two men. "He is blue and black and all the other shades a man's skin can take, but he breathed better with some poppy."

Aramis nodded, taking in the words Flea were telling him. They had, before d'Artagnan followed Flea into the Court of Miracles, decided amongst them to meet up every evening as the sun set, in a backroom of the Wren. When Flea had arrived instead of d'Artagnan, it was easy for both men to know that something had already gone awry.

Both Aramis and Athos had immediately prompted on being by their youngster's side, Aramis wanting to look him over instantly and make sure their pup was to recover fully. They had not liked Flea's description of d'Artagnan as he had been found. Body pale as the snow, cheeks bright red while the lips was a slight blue, breathing uneven, and body unmoving. It was one of Tison's men who had found him, instantly called for help and Tison had ordered him inside, to be stripped out of the cold and wet garments and placed in front of the fire, given all the blankets that could be spared. As soon as he had been somewhat conscious, they had mixed him some potion, containing poppy seeds, and they had been able to watch the pain leave his body as he fell into slumber.

"Is his cough still troubling him?"

"More so now than this mornin', and Tison believe his ribs to be injured, so the cough is definitely troubling 'im. But we've all seen worse, and he's strong. He'll be better."

"The minute he is in shape to stand, we want to see him." Athos said, stopping for a moment to look at Flea.

"Of course."

"Do you know the reason of the abuse, or the attackers?" Aramis asked, looking between Athos and Flea.

"No, I don't know. I told him very clearly to not go out by himself, that there are places of the Court and people of it which whom he should not be socializing with, but he snuck out when I went to get water. Stubborn lad, is he?"

"He is, too stubborn for his own good." Athos agreed. "Hopefully he can tell us what happened when he's strong enough."

"I'll watch over him and send word when he's stronger. Now, I must get back."

"Thank you for informing us of the situation Flea. It means a great deal to us. Use the potions and paste I gave you earlier, it will help him mend."

"Of course, it's the least I can do. Don't worry about 'im, he will be back on his feet soon. Let's focus on Porthos right now."

Both Aramis and Athos gave a nod as Flea parted through the backdoor, leaving the two of them alone. Athos sighed loudly as he sat down by the one table in there, popping his bottle of red wine open and pouring two glasses, as Aramis joined him on the other side. Athos emptied his glass befor Aramis had even had time to touch his glass.

"He said he could do it." Athos mumbled with his face in the empty glass. "Less than a day later they find him halfway beaten to death in the street."

"Athos… He couldn't have known the streets to be that dangerous. He's still inexperienced. In the future, he will be more careful to where he direct his feet."

"We sent him in there without guidance and he could've been killed."

"No, we did not. We sent him in there alongside Flea. It is not our fault that he decided to sneak off from her side. But you know how stubborn the lad is, always having the desire to prove himself. He just wanted to find Porthos."

"I do not like this Aramis. I want him out of there."

"I don't like this more than you do, but if we pull him out now, it would've all been in vain. We'll give him a day or two to recover, to see if he's learnt anything. At least he is safe. In the meantime, we need to focus on finding Porthos."

"If we just go out there and start searching through buildings, they would move him the moment we came close, and we would be looking for the rest of our lives. We need something to go on."

The very same morning, they had been to the abandoned blacksmith's place, located by the bridge by the Notre-Dame, in hope of le Faucon still keeping that place as his hideout. They had no such luck though, the place was wiped clean of all signs of ever being inhabited. The only little trace they had found was blood on the basement floor, which they both were hoping did not once belong to Porthos. But they were running out of hope, and clues. They did not know where to look, they did not know where to turn for help, or for more clues.

The situation felt rather hopeless, to say at least.

"Perhaps we should turn to our friends in the basement?" Aramis suggested, his hat back on his head, as he knew Athos would take him up on the idea. Athos didn't say anything, but did rise to his feet and put his own hat on his head while walking towards the door, heading down the street towards the basement where their three men were still tied to the wall, under lock and key.

The two of them made their way down the stairs, hoping that their hostages would still be where they had left them. From previous experiences, they had learnt not to trust their luck in all aspects. It happened now and then that prisoners escaped in front of their nose. But as they descended the stairs, Athos walking in the front with a torch in his hand, the sight of the three men still tied to the wall laid before them. All three of them did turn their heads upon hearing footsteps descending the stair.

They had been kept down there for almost an entire turn of the sun, and Athos hoped that they would've begun feeling abandoned, tired, thirsty and all other thing captives would go through. Some men would break down fast, while some of the men could endure for days. Athos sure hoped these men would be the first kind, while Porthos would be the latter. But Athos wasn't worried that Porthos would break. He did have full faith of the strength within his brothers, and he knew it would take a lot more than just simple captivity to break the spirit of any of his men.

The tiny part that terrified him though was not if Porthos would be strong enough to endure captivity, but what else he had to endure. What where they doing to him? Were they beating him, torturing him? Was he even still alive?

A pat on his shoulder took him back to reality, and a hasty look to his side remembered him that Aramis was still there with him, keeping him grounded and sharing his mental strength with unspoken words. The two of them descended down to the bottom of the stairs, and walked through the cold and dark room until they stood face to face with the three men held captive. Athos looked between the three for a few moments before clearing his throat, allowing his voice to come out with a harsh whisper.

"Would any of you reveal where we could find le Faucon, or our brother, Porthos du Vallon?"

Two of the men stood frozen, staring straight ahead as if they pretended not to hear, deciding they were not to break all that easily. Athos looked at them with stern eyes that only he could muster, a look that usually rattled every man's core, but their eyes did not falter. Athos had to give it to them – they were stronger than he first thought.

The third man on the other hand, decided that it would be a good answer to simply spit on Athos' chest.

Athos' eyes turned to the big bit of slime that was sliding down his chest, sticking to the leather. Athos exhaled deeply as he looked up to meet the eyes of that man, before his eyes narrowed and he set a straight right hook to the man's face. His head whipped to the side with a painful crack, sending the man's head into the wall, instantly knocking him unconscious.

Athos then proceeded in pulling out the man's tunic from his trousers, and ripped a big piece of cloth, which he used to wipe the slime off his chest, before tossing the cloth to the ground. He turned on his heels and headed back up the stairs with Aramis close behind.

They walked in silence over to Athos' place, none of them knowing what to say, but knowing they would need a glass to drink. Athos' place being the closest, and always having a bottle of something useful, it seemed like the right apartment to go to.

"Athos, my friend, who is this?"

Athos turned to look in the direction Aramis' focus had turned towards, and he couldn't help but to sigh when he spotted the cat from yesterday morning, as it was sat outside his door, improperly licking its behind with a hind leg stretched into the air. Upon seeing the two men, it instantly placed the paw back to the ground and rose to all four, stretching its back and then pressed its head towards Aramis' hand as he placed it in front of it.

Aramis had a way of turning into a small child whenever an animal seemed to like him, and he could forget all around him for just a little while. The joy spreading across his face when the cat reached forward to express emotions towards him had him grinning from ear to ear, and he swiftly picked the cat up into his arms.

"Well you, my dear, is one messy little thing, aren't you?"

"Aramis." Athos sighed, while he pushed open his door and entered his flat.

"Why didn't you tell me you'd gotten yourself a cat?" Aramis grinned while he flopped the cat over on it's back while scratching its belly. "And a little lady for that matter. Just what you needed."

"Aramis, I didn't 'get' a cat. I woke up yesterday and it was just… here. I don't know where it came from and I certainly didn't ask for it."

"Oh, Athos, you are not understanding the situation. You do not find yourself a cat. A cat, will find you. They are amazing creatures, clever, determined and courageous."

"Aramis, I beg of you to stop. Cat's are the pet of the devil, you must know this."

Aramis let out a short laugh as he sat himself down into a chair, allowing the cat to cuddle down into his lap, and as if just to scratch a line below what Athos had just said, she buried her front claws straight into Aramis' thigh, forcing him to bite down a moan of pain.

Athos took the moment to offer Aramis a smile of 'I told you so', as he served him a glass of wine.

"What do we do now?"

Athos sighed and sat down opposite his friend, leaning back into his chair and staring to the roof. "I'm not sure. We need to update Treville, see if he has heard anything that could possibly by useful. And I do believe it would not hurt us to find out more about this organisation Porthos ran. Treville helped bring it down, and he fought against it for years as they ransacked the city. Perhaps he would be willing to talk of it."

Aramis nodded. They would have to talk to Treville, and not only update him, but ask him what he knew of the New Life. Right now, any information they got their hands on could help them. And even if it didn't help them straight away, at least it would be more than they already had, which was… well, basically nothing.

"Hopefully d'Artagnan will be out of bed tomorrow. I doubt it would be good for him to leave the bed for at least a week, but that stubborn lad will not last long in bed, so I'm certain he will meet us tomorrow." Aramis mused while staring into the cup as a hand scratched behind the cat's only whole ear.

"I do believe you to be correct, he will send for us faster than we could know him to. He sure is stubborn."

"Name one Musketeer who is not." Aramis grinned, the comment getting a half sided smile out of Athos as well. That was one of the massive strengths of the regiment. No one would back down, no one would falter, and no one would just give up. They were an army of stubborn donkeys, and it had gotten them far.

"True." Athos agreed, emptying his cup, placing it back to the table as he observed Aramis with the cat in his lap, a little hairball of warmth, enjoying the fingers that found their way in behind her ears, gently rubbing her skin.

For an outsider, the sight might look calm, relaxed and controlled. Like everything was in order. But there were nothing right about this. Nothing. And it would take the time before ever coming back on the right foot.

* * *

Treville was behind his desk, going through a massive pile of paperwork as a knock on the door awoke him from his thoughts. Looking up to the doors and shouting his agreement to entering, he placed the papers down and rose to full height as he watched Aramis and Athos walk in through his door, Athos closing it behind them.

"Any word?"

"So far we've come up short. No sign of Le Faucon, or Porthos."

"Did you search by the blacksmith at Ponte Notre-Dame?"

"We did. It's clean, as if no one has ever set their foot there." Athos nodded sullenly.

Treville sat down heavily into his chair, a calloused hand coming up to rub his face as he sighed. Leaning back he looked up to meet the eyes of his most trusted soldier.

"Do you have anything?"

"We have three men in the basement of the garrison's kitchens. They attacked us when we followed the trail from where Porthos was attacked. I saw them earlier in the Wren as I was looking for him. They haven't talked yet."

"And d'Artagnan?"

"D'Artagnan has been attacked as well. Flea came out of the Court of Miracles this morning to inform us that he was found beaten in the street earlier this morning. She trusts him to recover fully, but he is unable to meet with us at this precise moment – and with that also unable to tell us if he did recover any information before his attack."

"Get him out of there as soon as you can. We need to gather the information and I do not wish more harm to come to him."

"We will get him out of there as soon as he's standing."

"Sir." Aramis spoke, for the first time since entering the room, while taking a step forward as well with his eyes jumping from the papers on Treville's desk, up to Treville's worried eyes. "We might be jumping to conclusions, but we were thinking, that the murders around the Court, and Porthos' disappearance, could have anything to do with the New Life Porthos and Charon created down in the Court. We wonder if you have any information about this? You were there."

"I strictly recall you being by my side as well, Aramis. Even saving my life."

Aramis flashed a smile in his Captain's way. "I might have fought by your side, but I was but a young, inexperienced soldier back then. I was not trusted then with information I am proud to be trusted with today. I knew very little of what was happening in the Court of Miracles. I remember you telling us that our alley inside has told us there was a group of thieves that would make a great robbery, and we took them down. But there was a large organisation, and we stopped but ten young lads, mere kids. No one out of rank. And that arrest cut down an organisation run by more than a thousand souls? I do not see it, nor understand, how us stopping those kids, could make the entire organisation fall to its knees?"

Treville paused as Aramis finished speaking, not sure of what to tell and not, but knowing who these men in front of him were, he knew he could trust them with what he was about to say.

"By the time this was happening in the Court, Porthos had already become a big part of the Musketeers. I do know you remember him saving your life, and that little girl's life, which followed with him becoming our ears and eyes inside the Court whenever need be. But back then, Porthos and I made a deal. I didn't tell any outsiders that he was helping us, and I allowed him to go about with the New Life without standing in his way. Nothing they did was legal, and I could've easily arrested him and brought him to the noose. Instead I turned a blind eye, and sidestepped it. Until Porthos came and told me that there were kids that were about to rob a moneylender. He said it would be all right for us to arrest them. I never questioned it, and we did. We took all those ten kids and put them in the Chatelet. I never asked more about it."

"I take it there was something else behind those actions?" Athos asked as he tipped his head to his side.

"While all our eyes were on those lads, the other members of the New Life swiped every carriage arriving to a nobility charity ball held at the Louvre Palace. It was one of the biggest thefts ever in French history, and we never did recover any valuables. After that, Porthos came to me, and told me he wanted out, that he did not want to stay in the Court any longer. He confessed that he had been a part of the theft along the roadside, and he was ready for his punishment. I figured that a man like him would be better as a friend than a foe, and I allowed him to train into the ranks."

Athos and Aramis could not help but to grin. Aramis had even been there, but they had never been told the true story of the thief from the slum entering the regiment. There had been rumours, but Porthos had soon proved himself worthy of the pauldron, and people had stopped asking question.

"The thing is, that those ten lads we placed in the Chatelet was a manoeuvre, a distraction that made us look into another direction. As far as I've understood it, Porthos never did forgive himself for setting them up, condemning them to a life behind bars, just because he needed us to look to the side. I will find the arrest papers with the kids names, and I will go to the Chatelet and see who of them still lives, or if anyone have been pardoned. Return to me no later than tomorrow noon, earlier if you have any information."

"Of course sir." Athos and Aramis nodded in union as they placed their hats back onto their heads and headed out the door. The cold hit them once again as they left the heated office of their Captain, and Aramis instinctively pulled his cloak closer.

"He never did tell us." Aramis said as his eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. "I told he had told me most things about his time in the Court. Now I'm coming to the conclusion that he did not tell me very much."

Athos placed a hand onto his friend's shoulder as they exited down the stairs, giving it a light squeeze, but instantly removing it as he felt Aramis tense underneath him. Right. Bad shoulder.

"Apologies." Athos mumbled as he removed his hand. "No one of us has shared all the demons of the past that we still carry. I'm certain Porthos has withheld this in hope of forgetting, in hope of drowning his bad conscious, burying it deep into the ground, hoping no one will ever start digging right in that spot."

"But for some reason, we always start digging in that exact spot. Why is that?"

"It's for the greater good, Aramis. It's for the greater good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Okay, I just want to add as well that I have nothing against cats - I've had my little lady for ten years now and she is the love of my life. But that doesn't mean she's not the devil's spawn! ;D**


	9. Orphaned Children

"Porthos! Porthos!"

"I'm comin'!"

"Run! Run faster!"

Porthos took a turn as fast as his legs could carry him, slipped in the mud with one of his bare feet, but quickly recovered himself and kept on running. A hand unconsciously went inside the blanket he was cradling in his arms, and he could feel the heat of the loaf of bread still tucked inside. The smell made his feet go faster as he was even more determined to dig his teeth into the bread.

"Hurry!"

Another turn. Quick as a rabbit. Charon was in front of him, leading the way, creating a path, making sure they would get safely off the street within a few corners. They had done this before. More than once. It was becoming a routine thing.

Up until a few weeks ago, they would only steel food whenever they were hungry enough not to care about what were to happen if they were caught. They would steal fruit and bread from the people passing the Court on their way to the Parisian market, and steal something when their heads were turned. It was only so they wouldn't starve. It was innocent, because it was necessary.

But Charon was quickly growing bolder for each time they got away with it, and he was insisting on them doing it more, and more often. Porthos didn't really see the need to steal every day, but the food they collected was too intoxicating for them to be able to stop. Eating was nice. Good food was always welcome. Porthos was always hungry, so he would not step back when Charon had his eyes on some passing markets man who wasn't fully concentrated on his own merchandise.

Charon suddenly grabbed a rough hold by his arm and pulled him aside, into the shadows within a small alleyway. They hurried down the tiny alley, quiet, quickly, unnoticed. At the end of it, on one of the facades, was a hole in the building, about four foot high and four foot wide, and about as deep. The bricks had fallen out due to poor construction, and nothing ever said that more wouldn't fall, but as of now it appeared to be rather sturdy. Nothing really was solid in the Court of Miracles. Everything was on the bridge of collapsing. But it didn't matter.

That hole in the brick wall was Charon and Porthos turf. They had claimed that hole for themselves and it was a perfect hideaway from curious eyes and other thieves. It was big enough for the two ten-year-olds to fit in there, and now they crawled in as they always did. Charon went in first, Porthos right on his heels, and the two of them snuggled up to keep each other warm, as Porthos pulled out their prey. The two of them just looked at the loaf for a while, closing their eyes as the smell of the newly baked bread hit their noses. Fantastic.

Porthos divided the bread into two pieces, and handed one to Charon. The two of them sat in silence as they ate it all, even if their pieces were really too much for them to eat, you never did know when you would be able to eat again. It could be the very same evening. It could be in four days time. So therefore, if you managed to lay your hands on anything edible, you ate it straight away no matter how full your stomach felt.

It was a precarious life. But Porthos never complained – he didn't know of any better life. He had been on these streets for as long as he could remember. His mother had died five years ago, and he remembered it as if it were yesterday. She had always seen distant, quiet. Always searching for something Porthos didn't know what it was, but never finding any answers. Porthos tried to help her search, but it was difficult when he didn't know what to keep his eyes out for.

He always did believe it had something to do with his father. She never spoke of him, but he appeared to always be on her mind. In the dead of the night she would whisper a name, just a single name of an unknown person, and Porthos highly believed that to be his fathers name. But he had no recollection of his father, and he had no need to meet with him. He had left them, left them alone, broken his mother and hurt her on the inside. Porthos figured it would be better if he just stayed away, stay away so his mother could tend to her broken heart.

And then she died. One day, walking towards the market, she just fell and died, right there on the street, without a warning. Porthos had sat with her, sat and held her head as the few rays of sun that had warmed the streets turned into a dark and cold night. No one had bothered turning heads at the starved young woman and the five-year-old boy on the street. It was not an uncommon sight. It happened all too often, and it had left the hearts of most people in Court all cold, uncaring. You cared for yourself, or you died. It was that simple.

When night came, Porthos still hadn't left his mothers side, not sure where to go or what to do instead. A loud voice behind him had him twirling his head, watching with big eyes how five men, soldiers, came at him with determined steps. They wore leather, black leather, with red sleeves and trousers, and a red cross on their chests. They had swords hanging from their hips, and shining silver helmets on their heads. None of them looked friendly.

Before Porthos knew it, they had grabbed a hold of his mother's body, being told she could not "lay here and rot, stinking up the place" and he should be moving along.

But he didn't know where to go, he didn't know what to do. He had been by his mother's side all his life and her support and guidance was all he had ever known. Without her, he was clueless, confused and scared. He didn't know the first thing about living on his own.

He was just five years old.

He had cried out when they had pulled his mother's cold body away from him, and he had been running after them, clinging to one of the man's trousers. It had been rewarded with a powerful slap across the face with a black glove. Porthos had stumbled back, reeling into the wall, and then took off in a sprint, just running the streets until his legs were too tired to run.

He had meet Charon a few nights later, both of them orphan, and none of them knowing what to do to get on with their lives, but none of them ready to just give up and die. So they fought, they fought through rain and snow and stinking heat, they fought other children, earned their place and respect and they managed to get on with the daily things as any other man. Now, as two ten-year-olds, they were actually doing rather well. They would eat almost daily. The King of the Court would let them be as long as they didn't take too much or attract too much attention to themselves. You had two options in the slum. You either stayed in the shadows, unseen, like a ghost, and only took what you needed, and did it quickly and skilled enough to never be seen, or caught. Or you were the complete opposite, when greed seeped through the veins of a thief and they begun stealing with the only reason to it being 'I do it because I can.' The great thieves in here, the ones who had actually managed to run a life, come out on the plus side of it all, were saluted in respect. They were the Court of the Court, as they liked to say, they were the King and his men. They were respected and their rules were obeyed all through out the slum area, and they had complete power.

They were also under constant watch from the Red Guards and the Musketeers, and had their lives taken far more often than anyone else in Paris. If you held the face outwards when anything happened, you were most likely to be killed. If you remained hidden, and never found, you could actually survive through most ordeals. It was when you bragged too much, or talked too loud, that you could easily wake the next morning by a sword going through your guts.

"Someone's coming."

Porthos stopped mid-bite as Charon awoke him from his thoughts, and seconds later they could see legs in front of their little hideaway.

"Porthos. Charon. I know you're in there."

As the two kids recognized the voice, they both crawled out of their hole, clutching their bread still, and stood to full height to meet the King of the Court, a man named Raphael. He was young, still a teen, but tall with wide shoulders and arms the size of trees.

"Hey kids. Good to see you aren't starving. You're becoming good at finding your own breakfast, aren't you?"

Both Porthos and Charon just nodded, waiting for what Raphael had in store for them. He came around a few times a week with small missions for them, wanting them to steal something from someone, and he would reward them well for their trouble.

"The Good King will be riding in an open coach down Rue de la Ferronnerie today, and it will be a golden opportunity to jump in and get a hold of some of his gold. I will give you full details later, but come by me by midday, and I will explain it all to you."

Both Porthos and Charon nodded once again, and Raphael gave them a smile before disappearing into the shadows, allowing the two kids to finish their breakfast.

**...**

Both Porthos and Charon were feeling slightly concerned as they, a few hours later, were wandering along Rue de la Ferronnerie, begging coins of the people along the street while they waited for the Good King. Raphael had told them two carts would be blocking the road, and the boys could sneak up, jump into the coach and lay their hands on anything they could, and run out of there. They had done it plenty of times, open coaches always provided easy access for small, nibble fingers, but this time it was the King. The King had guards nearby at all times, but so did most of the noblemen they stole of at normal times.

Porthos couldn't explain what it was that made his stomach churn, but it sure was something not right about this whole thing.

As the coach came into view, both Porthos and Charon could not help themselves from stopping and staring. The coach was more decorated than anything Porthos had ever seen in his life, and as he watched he could clearly see the Good King, Henry IV of France, in there, leaned back into his soft cushions as they passed.

Porthos and Charon staring must've caught the Good King's attention, because just as he passed, he turned his head and looked right at them, with eyes soft and gentle. Porthos and Charon stood dumbfounded, their hands tucked into their pockets as they stared. The King smiled, and a flicker of his hand had something twirling through the air. Porthos only needed to reach forward quickly to snatch the object flying through the sky, and opening his hand he found a golden coin with a crown engraved. He had never seen a coin like that before, actually, he had never held anything of gold before. He had seen gold, the old King of the Court had flaunted his riches and shown them real gold, and Porthos was certain that this piece in his hand were of gold as well.

Looking up he saw the coach had stopped, not far away from where they stood, and looking up ahead the road he noticed the two other carts blocking their way.

Right, it was time to move.

Porthos carefully placed the gold into his pocket, before both he and Charon moved down towards the coach. Guards were exiting the coach instantly, most likely to clear a way from the King, but Porthos' eyes were elsewhere. His eyes were on the man in black, coming up behind the coach with a knife well visible in his hand.

He didn't waste any time, instead the man just leaned in and stabbed the King twice, before trying to make a run for it. Guards came upon him instantly. Chaos and panic was an instant fact. People were crowding the coach, wanting to get to their King, as the guards tried to get the assassin, and get their King to safety.

In the midst of the chaos, both Porthos and Charon took the golden opportunity to climb into the coach, take as much as they could carry, and ran as fast as their legs would carry them. They placed everything they had taken into the cloths they were wearing, and ran, ran all the way towards the corners of the slum without ever looking back.

Behind them echoed the voices of thousands of people.

"The King is dead! The King is dead!"

* * *

Porthos' eyes popped open, blinking a few times as he tried to get the dizziness to subside. It took him longer than he wanted to admit to get the room to stop spinning, but as it did he carefully turned his head around to take in his surroundings.

There was not much to see. He was lying on a cold floor made out of stone, and around him were four walls, made out of stone as well. There were a small, tiny window with bars up by the roof on two sides, allowing a little bit of sunlight in through it, but also allowing the cold to work its way through the room as a draught was created. Porthos could feel the chill in his bones, even though he was properly dressed, it still wasn't anyway near enough to keep him warm.

And how long had he been here?

As he sat up, leaning his back against the wall and pulled his fingers towards the ache in the back of his head, he could feel the dry blood ooze up again by the touch. The memories of that night slowly came back to him. The alcohol. Flea knocking his door. Her begging for help. Him searching for Athos. Then nothing. Someone must've struck him from behind and left him here. But who would do that to him? Did it have anything to do with what Flea had told him of the business happening in the Court?

A breeze went through the room and he wrapped his arms around himself. It was cold down here. He could feel the chill within his lungs and he couldn't help but to wonder how long he had been down here, and for how long he would have to stay. There was not enough shelter down here, the stone frozen by the weather, and he feared staying down here for too long would make him sick.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, memories of his childhood on the streets during the untamed winters playing back in front of his eyes. If he had made it back then, he could make it now as well. He would not succumb to the cold. He was of the street. He could live through anything.

The door slamming open without warning had him startled, and before he even had time to get to his feet, five men had made their way inside, grabbed a hold of his arms, and pressed him against the wall. Two of them held him back, their shoulders towards his, and no matter how much he struggled, it was just not enough. They had too good of a hold. Two other men were on each side of him, with guns ready in hand, prepared to shoot if they had to.

The fifth man stood still right in front of Porthos, eying him from down to up, stopping as their eyes met.

Porthos frowned. There was something about those eyes that made his stomach churn, there was something oh so familiar about them. But no matter how much he ransacked his head, he could not place that face to a name.

The man in front of him was probably younger than Porthos, but his eyes spoke of wisdom, and his face spoke of a hard life. He was skinny, but muscular, like a man who had not eaten well in years and then just begun all over again. He looked tired, but ready.

His dark eyes were full of pure hatred.

He never did speak. Instead, he just put his head to the side, offered Porthos a smile, before his fist connected with Porthos' ribcage. Then another one. And then another. For such a skinny lad, he sure had power behind those hits, and Porthos had a feeling that the hate certainly had something to do with the power.

The beating was brutal and merciless, but didn't last for long. As the man suddenly stopped and raised a hand, the two men holding Porthos let go of him, and he dropped hard to the floor, not having time to prepare himself. The five men exited the room without a single word having left their lips, and Porthos once again found himself alone. A hand towards his ribs and one hand towards the floor, and he pressed himself up into sitting position.

His body was hurting, and he could feel the give in the bones as he tried to inhale, along with the slight chill in his lungs. He was not having the best of days. As he leaned back and closed his eyes, three faces stood before him. Three faces belonging to men he trusted with his life, and whom he knew was on the lookout for him as he laid here. He knew they would come. They always came for each other. Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It is estimated that there is 150-200 million orphaned children worldwide, the numbers impossible to count, 5760 children losing their parents each day that passes. 22 million children are refugees or internally displaced, forced to flee their homes. 67 million children will never go to school. Every day, 38 493 children will leave the foster care system or orphanage without a family to call their own or a place to call home._
> 
> _..._
> 
> _And yes, King Henry IV of France was assassinated by the Catholic fanatic François Ravaillac on 14th of May 1610 on a busy street when riding in his open coach. The traffic had been bad due to the Queens coronation ceremony. Louis was 9 at the time and I figured he should be around the same age as Porthos._


	10. Making plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I know, I apologize. I'm just too happy about my life right now to spend it in front of the laptop. That's how it is! I do hope the chapters are worth waiting for, even though this one is a bit short. Just wanted to get it up before I'm taking off again. Love you all!

 

D'Artagnan kept his hood up as he carefully entered the bar, not wanting to drag any kind of attention to himself, at any cost. He had sent a runner to find Athos and Aramis, and he was impatient about the meeting. It had been two days since he had been carried down to Tison's quarters – of which he could not remember – and there had been two days without talking to his brothers, two days wasted instead of finding Porthos. He was anxious to learn weather or not they had any news regarding him, or if they were still threading at the same spot of uncertainty. He felt absolutely helpless and ready to make amends in any way possible.

He walked through the Wren – it was busy as always, with both Musketeers and Red Guards. Most people were sitting by the tables, either enjoying a cup of something intoxicating, or playing a game of cards. Down by the corner, a Red Guard and a Musketeer were shouting at each other, something that almost always would lead to a duel. So everything went on as usual, it appeared to be an ordinary night.

Normally d'Artagnan would enjoy the folly, sit back and relax with a cup in his hand as well, laugh along as his friends ended up in trouble, but for the moment there were more important things at stake, other things to be dealt with than a simple deck of cards.

He coughed into his hand, the motion forcing him to stop as it felt like a knife was pressed into his chest. The intense beating had not really helped his cold, and every cough was pure agony at the moment. He had been told the ribs seemed whole but bruised, and same with the chest bone. But even if the bones were not broken, it didn't mean they didn't hurt. Because it sure did.

Another cough had him wheezing, and he doubled over in an attempt to stop the coughing fit he could feel creep in. Panic began welling up in his gut, the feeling of not being able to control the coughing, and the pain it would bring along. He didn't know how to stop it, and he wasn't sure he could handle it. He closed his eyes hard, and pressed the palms of his hands towards his chest as the coughing fit began without his permission and against all of his attempts to stop it.

It didn't last for more than a few moments, because all of a sudden a pair of strong hands grabbed onto his wrists, and pulled his arms up above his head, gently but determinedly. The coughing quickly subsided into soft wheezing, and as the pain settled, d'Artagnan opened his eyes, eyes wet from tears of pain.

Aramis. Of course it was Aramis.

A hand on his upper back told him Athos was there as well, and the two of them guided him inside the back room, forcing him down onto an old, rickety chair. D'Artagnan placed his arms on the table and placed his forehead towards his forearms, focusing on controlling his breathing as he could feel Aramis place an ear between his shoulder blades.

"I'm alright."

"Mhm." Aramis mumbled as he tried to listen, in the same time as Athos sat down in front of him, on the opposite side of the table, his eyes flickering between Aramis and d'Artagnan, back to Aramis as the man rose to full height.

"Well it doesn't sound like any water in the lungs, that is something at least. How are you feeling?"

"I've been better. I've been worse. Two days in bed has helped immensely. Any word about Porthos?"

"None." Aramis sighed as he sat down by the table. "We haven't found anything that could lead us to where he is. Treville did tell us that the organisation came to an end after Porthos turned in a group of young who were about to rob a moneylender. He turned them in – he betrayed them – to make the Musketeers look away from their initial target, which was carriages arriving to a nobility charity ball. We do assume that those kids might still be holding a grudge from being betrayed, so Treville went to talk to the keepers in the Chatelet, and he has given us a list of names. Some of those kids are still in there, some are dead, and four of them are out in the free, being pardoned by the Queen last year on Good Friday."

"Anyone we have an eye on?"

"Bellamy Moulin appears to be the leader according to the keeper. We are assuming that is the real name of Le Faucon. We just can't seem able to find him." Athos answered, in the same time as he poured all three of them some wine from a bottle so dusty that you could write on it with the tip of your finger.

D'Artagnan couldn't even hold back the smile he felt growing. He had heard of that name. He just hadn't connected the dots.

"May I ask what it is that's amusing you?" Athos asked, as he sipped carefully on his wine.

"I know of him. Rumour has it that a man with that name has just came back to Court, and is gambling money out of everyone's pockets – at least all the little coins they can spare for such whims. They say he plays at an underground bar by the Seine. I'm certain I can find him."

"You should go back to the garrison and lie down before that cold kills you." Aramis said, playfulness in his voice even though both his brothers knew him to be dead serious. He did not like seeing d'Artagnan this way, and he knew exertion would not make it better. People had died for less during the raging winters in the poor neighbourhoods.

"You know I will not do so Aramis. I have a plan, and I intend to follow it. It's easy enough, and the sooner we find Porthos, the sooner I can cuddle up in my own bed with you watching over me like my mom once did. But you know I will not rest until we found him, so it will be a lot quicker if you just listen to my plan."

As d'Artagnan spoke, both Athos and Aramis whipped their heads around to look at each other, distrust shining through their facial features as they had a feeling they would not like what was about to come.

"Hey, come on you, at least hear me out." D'Artagnan said annoyed, a pout forming on his lips.

Aramis smiled gently at the pout d'Artagnan showed off, before getting up from his seat to walk around the table, and place a hand upon the youngster's shoulder.

"Of course we'll hear you out. It's just that... Last time we did, Athos shot you, Constance was kidnapped... It just wasn't what we thought it would be. And let me see, that plan you had before that, was that when Vadim tied you to barrels of gunpowder, wasn't it?"

D'Artagnan threw his hands in the air, something he immediately regretted as the fast movement sent pain shooting through his injured ribs. Sighing back into the chair, he took a few cautious breaths to relieve it, coughing a few times, before he decided to tell his brothers of his plan no matter if they wanted to hear it or not. Both Athos and Aramis listened carefully as he spoke, allowing him to speak until finished, allowing him to fill them in on all the details. As he finished, both Athos and Aramis sat quiet for several long moments, before Athos finally spoke.

"I always though you to be mad. Now I know, that it is the case."

"I am with Athos. There has to be an other way of proceeding than putting your life at risk."

"Well, I would like to hear you tell me of that other way." D'Artagnan smiled, one of his eyebrows crooked in question.

Both Aramis and Athos sat staring at each other for another couple of long, quiet moments, before they both came to the conclusion that they would not be able to come up with another plan. As always with d'Artagnan's plans, it was dangerous, foolish and oh so many things that could, and probably would, go wrong, but as it fell before them, it was the only plan they had.

"There must be another way." Athos sighed, rubbing his face with one of his hands. "I do not like having you play bait. I do not like putting your life at risk once more. We've done enough of that."

D'Artagnan was about to answer as a cough escaped past his lips. He tried to keep it in, to hide it from the others, but the harder he tried the more he coughed. Aramis and Athos sat quiet, waiting him out as his lungs rattled in his chest, d'Artagnan bending forward with his hands on his knees in an attempt to ease the cough. It soon enough faded out, leaving d'Artagnan looking even more exhausted than he already was.

"Is there anything I could tell you that would make you reconsider?" Aramis asked, the hand on his shoulder squeezing gently, not expecting an answer as d'Artagnan was once again wheezing in an attempt to force air into his lungs.

Athos walked up to d'Artagnan and put a hand onto his chest. D'Artagnan was gagging, doing his best to catch his breath once again, regaining his composure. It was not an easy task, because it felt like he had just coughed up his lungs, and the pain in his bruised bones didn't really offer any kind of solace, but he did have enough energy to push Athos' hand away.

"Fine." Was all he managed to squeeze out through the uncontrolled breaths and Athos clicked his tongue towards the top of his mouth.

"Yeah, I can hear that. Maybe you should-"

"No. No, Athos, I can  _do_  this. Please. I  _need_  to do this, for Porthos."

Athos didn't say anything for several moments as he watched the beads of sweat drip down d'Artagnan's forehead, how his damp clothes clung to his body and how his long hair was sticking to his forehead. He didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

D'Artagnan knew Athos didn't, and he instantly went with the not-so-secret weapon that he possessed, and tilting his head he softened his big, dark eyes to meet Athos' blue. Athos sighed. He could never say no to the pup when he turned on the charm.

"Alright. We will proceed with your plan. Tomorrow at dusk. I will inform Treville. Can you safely get back to Flea or do you…"

"I can, Athos. I promise. Tomorrow at dusk. Let us bring our brother home."

And with that, d'Artagnan rose, took a few tentative breaths, before popping the hood back up above his head, and exited through the door with no more words.

As d'Artagnan left them, Athos sat back down again, while Aramis remained standing by the table. There was an eerie silence as none of the men spoke for a long while, both of them lost in thought, their minds flashing back to past times of selective memories.

They remained quiet for so long, that Aramis jerked in surprise as Athos whispered, so quietly that Aramis almost thought he had just imagined it.

"I believe we have failed him." Athos whispered quietly, his eyes falling down to the cup in front of him. He couldn't bear to look at his brothers. They trusted him, trusted him as their leader to help them when troubled, to guide them as a light through the darkness and to pull them up by the hair from stormy rivers. They trusted him with their lives, and he had failed them.

"You have not failed Porthos." Aramis backfired immediately, rising to his feet in order to place a hand at the nape of Athos' neck. "Do you hear me? We will find him, and we will bring him home."

"We have been looking for days, and we are nowhere closer to finding him. What if we can't?"

"We will. We have a plan. Granted, it's not the best we have had, but it doesn't involve you shooting your protégé and that's something. We know le Faucon's real name and we know where he normally hides. We will get him now, and when we do, he will lead us straight to Porthos. What could possibly go wrong?"


End file.
